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1916" I020 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2007 with funding from 

Microsoft Corporation 


Favorite Poems Selected from the Magazine 



With an Introduction 




Copyright, 1920, by E. P. Dutton & Company 

All Rights Reserved 


."■ : .:.-.,• 

Printed in the United States of America 

To our loyal Contributors who have 
made possible this Volume; and to 
all other Americans who believe in 
Poetry as the Expression of Life. 



We gratefully acknowledge our indebtedness to the 
publishers in whose books some of the poems included 
in Contemporary Verse Anthology have appeared: — 

The Cornhill Company — Gargoyles, by Howard 
Mumford Jones. 

George H. Doran Company — Songs from the 
Journey, by Wilton Agnew Barrett. 

Poems, Essays 
and Letters of Joyce Kilmer. 

E. P. Dutton and Company — The Earth Turns 
South, by Clement Wood. 

Houghton Mifflin Company — Rhymes of a 
Homesteader, by Elliott C. Lincoln. 

B. W. Huebsch — Hesitant Heart, by Winifred 

John Lane Company — Tropical Town, by Salo- 
mon de la Selva. 

Little Book Publishers — Streets and Faces, by 
Scudder Middleton. 

The Macmillan Company — Bluestone, by Mar- 
guerite Wilkinson. 

Charles Scribner's Sons — Dust and Light, by 
John Hall Wheelock. 

James T. White — The Final Star, by Marion 
Couthouy Smith. 



An Invocation DuBose Hey ward 1 

To-day Amory Hare 2 

^Three Poems Karle Wilson Baker 

I Love the Friendly Faces of Old Sorrows. . 4 

Death the Highwayman 5 

Morning Song 6 

The American » Louis Untermeyer 7 

What If the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? 

Stephen Moylan Bird 10 

The Anchor William Laird 12 

Defeat Glenn Ward Dresbach 14 

The Two Drinkers (From the French of Charles 

Vildrac) Witter Bynner 15 

Gold-in-Gray Robert Gilbert Welsh 17 

Echoes Ruth Lambert Jones 19 

Won By Ear Daniel W. Troy 20 

"Shine!" Amory Hare 21 

Pier 6 Francis T. Kimball 23 

The Watchman Miriam Vedder 25 

God's Pity Louise Driscoll 26 

Make Believe Helen Hoyt 27 

Patchwork Mary Willis Shuey 28 

A Song of Butte Howard Mum] or d Jones 30 

Land of the Free. . .Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins 34 

The Poem Clement Wood 35 

The Bird Caroline Stern 39 

Chains Glenn Ward Dresbach 40 



Distance Margaret E. McCallie 41 

The Day That Love Came Down to Me. 

Haniel Long 42 

A Song of Piekrot Maurice A. Hanline 43 

The Unforgiven Nancy Barr Mavity 45 

The Door Mary Carolyn Davies 46 

Inviolate Marx G. Sabel 47 

"Les Latjriers Sont Coupes" Elinor Wylie 48 

Certitude Helen, Hoyt 49 

By the Hearth Amory Hare 51 

Silenced Willard Wattles 53 

To You Beatrice W. Ravenel 54 

Contrasts Marie Louise Hersey 55 

My Mother E. Merrill Root 56 

Return After Death John Hall Wheelock 58 

In An Old House Winifred Welles 61 

The Ruined 'Dobe Jennie Harris Oliver 63 

The Return Scudder Middleton 65 

February Twenty-Second. 

Raymond Peckham Holden 66 

The Man at the Plow Ruthele Novak 67 

I Stood at Twilight Berenice K. Van Slyke 68 

The Push-Cart William Rose Benet 69 

Challenge Eleanor Duncan Wood 72 

Waif Amanda Benjamin Hall 73 

The Ashman Joyce Kilmer 77 

The Freight Yards Phoebe Hoffman 84 

I Would Not Die in April Clement Wood 86 

Spring Cowardice Leonora Speyer 87 

A Dead Man Wilton Agnew Barrett 88 



Not I Lizette Woodworth Reese 89 

Funeral Raymond Peckham H olden 90 

A Day in May Ruthele Novak 92 

May Stephen Moylan Bird 93 

To Narcissus Winifred Welles 94 

A Song For My Father. . Grace Hazard Conkling 95 

The Day You Went Beatrice W. Ravenel 96 

A Revenant Dorothy Anderson 97 

Tanager Abbie Farwell Brown 99 

My Garden is a Pleasant Place. Louise Driscoll 101 

My Soul is a Moth Dorothy Anderson 104 

Three Songs For E Sara Teasdale 

I. Gray Eyes 106 

II. Meadowlarks 106 

III. The Net 107 

Dusk in the Garden .... Grace Hazard Conkling 108 

Rondels of Lomaland Kenneth Morris 

The Rain 109 

Noon on the Hillside 109 

The Flowers 110 

Evening Over False Bay Ill 

A Morning in September v Ill 

Pampas-Grass 112 

Kathleen Bernard Raymund 113 

To Dance! Margaret B. McGee 114 

Forest Dance Mary Carolyn Davies 115 

The Fiddler Edna Valentine Trapnell 117 

The Dancer in the Shrine. 

Amanda Benjamin Hall 119 
Fire- Weed in the Forest. .Julian M. Drachman 121 



Courage, Mon Ami! Willard Wattles 123 

Ha! Ha! Willard Wattles 124 

Joy o' Living Amanda Benjamin Hall 125 

Rendezvous Leonora Speyer 127 

The Naturalist on a June Sunday. 

Leonora Speyer 129 

Week-End Sonnets John French Wilson 131 

Fishing Maxwell Struthers Burt 134 

Inland Frances Dickenson Finder 137 

Weather , . . . .Marguerite Wilkinson 138 

Summer Sea Archie Austin Coates 139 

Loneliness E.J. Coatsworth 140 

Inland Edna Valentine Trapnell 141 

The Tankers Gordon Malherbe Hillman 143 

"Shipping News" David Morton 145 

Crossing on the Seattle FERRY.C7are D. Stewart 146 

Beauty Like Yours David Morton 149 

Sand Hortense Flexner 150 

Masks Marianne Moore 151 

The Elm Odell Shepard 152 

These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus. 

Helen Coale Crew 154 

A Home Hardwicke Marmaduke Nevin 157 

In the Sky Garden Stephen Moylan Bird 158 

The Queen's Shrift D.E.P. Harding 159 

From "Songs for a Mask". .Margaret Widdemer 162 

Swanhild Sings to the Knight 

The Waterfall Marion Couthouy Smith 163 

Sixteen Elizabeth Hanly 164 

Freesia Theresa Helburn 166 

In Beatrice W. Ravenel 167 


Under Autumn Trees. ..Christine Turner Curtis 168 
An Apple Eater to a Coquette. . . William Laird 169 
The Coquette to the Apple Eater. 

Mary Eleanor Roberts 170 

Four Walls Mary Morsell 171 

Broomgrass Beatrice W. Ravenel 172 

Certainty Beatrice W. Ravenel 173 

The Soul's Goodbye John M. Waring 174 

Bells of Erin Norreys Jephson 'Conor 176 

Comfort t Margaret French Patton 178 

Home Berenice K. Van Slyke 179 

In the Hallway Louis Ginsberg 181 

The Singer Exults Salomon de la Selva 182 

The Poet's Path Daniel Henderson 183 

Bubbles Oscar C. Williams 184 

Mist Margie Potter 185 

Pulvis Et Umbra Edward J. O'Brien 187 

Revelation Louise Townsend Nicholl 188 

The Tissue Gamaliel Bradford 189 

Who Gamaliel Bradford 190 

My Youth Gamaliel Bradford 191 

Brown Leaves Gamaliel Bradford 192 

The Drone Gamaliel Bradford 193 

Expenses Gamaliel Bradford 194 

The Dainty Virtue Gamaliel Bradford 195 

Rousseau Gamaliel Bradford 196 

God Gamaliel Bradford 197 

Bed-Time Ralph M. Jones 198 

After Sorrow Winifred Welles 200 

Winter Flowers Effie Bangs Warvelle 201 



Snow C. A. Huntington 202 

Stress of Snow Charles R. Murphy 203 

Stories Maxwell Struthers Burt 207 

Darkness Katharine Wisner McCluskey 210 

Songs for Parents John Chipman Farrar 

Wish 211 

A Comparison 211 

Parenthood 212 

The Wind-Gods Percival Allen 213 

The Choosing Ruth Comfort Mitchell 215 

Mrs. Senator Jones Elliott C. Lincoln 218 

The Last Speech of Silent Sam. .John T. Troth 220 

The Old Gods March Leyland Huck field 226 

Life As a Gage You Flung John Pierre Roche 228 

Largess Leslie Nelson Jennings 229 

A Prayer William Laird 230 

Westward William Laird 231 

Gee-Up Dar, Mules Edwin Ford Piper 233 

The Drafted Mountaineer Salutes. 

Hortense Flexner 235 

Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed Leonora Speyer 236 

The Taking of Bagdad Kadra May si 238 

Betrayal and Absolution. 

O. R. Howard Thomson 240 
Candle Famine in Paris. 

Louise Townsend Nicholl 242 

It is not Strange Witter Bynner 245 

Peace Frances Dickenson Pinder 246 

This Soldier Generation. 

William Alexander Percy 247 
Biographical Index to Poets Represented 249 



IT IS strange that among the numerous collections of 
modern American verse none has hitherto been 
broadly devoted to the needs and interests of the general 
reading public. It is due to this lack, I feel, that many- 
intelligent persons have looked askance at the so-called 
"new verse," supposing that whatever it may mean, it 
can mean but little to them. Confronted with various 
recent effusions, they have gone back to the Fireside 
Encyclopedia, or some similar collection of their old 
favorites. This was a pity, and yet it was most natural. 

The fact is that it is always the bizarre and eccentric 
in contemporary art that is forced upon our attention. 
The quiet, sincere painter, composer, or writer has to 
make his or her way slowly. Thus while the imitators 
of Whitman and various imported cults have been ramp- 
ing on the American literary stage, it might well be 
supposed that Poe, Longfellow, Whittier, and Emerson 
have had no successors. Yet these latter poets were 
read by millions when Whitman was at best read by 
thousands. Far be it from me to underestimate the 
growing importance of Whitman, but on the other hand, 
it is merely narrow to condemn the American public 
because it still prefers the simpler, clearer work of the 
other poets. 

A perusal of this volume will, I think, show that the 
older type of American poetry is being very earnestly 
and successfully cultivated today. It has made many 
important developments, has thoroughly caught the 



vitality of this generation, without losing the sanity 
of the earlier tradition. The newer popular poetry, as 
I may call what this volume attempts to present, is 
very properly different from the work of Poe and the 
New England school. It is less idealistic than Poe, less 
moralizing than Lowell or Longfellow. Above all things 
it is closer to life, more enthusiastic about the world of 
nature and men that surrounds us. In this may be seen 
the more beneficial side of Whitman's influence, but 
the advance has come about rather from the changing 
temper of the people than through any single author or 
group of authors. 

The important thing here is to define the difference 
between the newer popular poetry and the radical ex- 
periments which have partly obscured its existence. The 
crucial point is the distinction between individuality and 
egotism. One class of versifiers, with the desire of writ- 
ing what people will like, solve the question by writing 
only what people have liked; in other words, consciously 
or unconsciously, they imitate. To this class belong 
the platitudinarians, the sentimentalists, the pseudo-clas- 
sicists — all those who take the formulas of any writer or 
age as a substitute for their own experiences and con- 
victions. They may imitate cleverly, may even give a 
certain amount of pleasure; but they ring hollow, for 
they have not even lived themselves into the thoughts 
and methods of others sufficiently to be good translators. 

If imitation be sterile, why not shun it by going to 
the other extreme? This is just what many superficially 
clever writers are doing. But in fleeing Scylla they rush 



into Charybdis, the whirlpool of egotism. These are the 
post- Whitman declaimers, the bathers in exoticism, the 
color fiends, the refiners of nuances, the free-verse muck- 
rakers, the cacophonists of realism, the persons who 
strain to reveal something startling about their souls, 
or their bodies, or God. Worst of all are those who, with 
nothing to say, are most ingenious in finding new ways 
to say it, i.e., the dozen and one cults of -ists. 

Certainly much good paper is being spoiled in the 
name of poetry. Nevertheless, today as in the past, the 
essential sanity of the American people is making itself 
felt, and already the craze of false innovation is on the 
wane. I believe that now, especially since the war, an 
increasing majority of poetical aspirants are doing fine 
and effectual things. The timid stand-patters are being 
displaced, and the tumult and shouting of the radicals 
is rapidly dying away, to the great relief of our spiritual 
ears. People begin to realize that there are many living 
poets who have essentially something to say. These 
poets are honestly studying their craft, not as a vehicle 
of self-exploitation, but as a means of transmitting to 
their fellow-men the best that life has revealed to them. 

The words "freedom" and "originality" are beginning 
to be less loosely used. When someone on an actual or 
a metaphorical soap-box begins to rant about freedom, 
the by-standers begin to ask themselves, "freedom to 
do what?" We are weary of being disturbed by men 
who merely wish to call attention to their own imagined 
superiorities or grievances. It is the same with origi- 
nality. A little common sense will demonstrate that 



much "originality" is as valueless for actual life as is a 
museum freak. Emerson's doctrine of "be yourself," 
like other mystic generalizations, is capable of abuse. 
To be oneself is only a poetic merit when that self may 
be sympathetically interpreted, not to a self-admiring 
clique, but eventually to a fairly large number of plain 
human beings. This is of course the doctrine of Tolstoi: 
namely, that good art is that which increases within us 
the feeling of our kinship to humanity. 

After this attempt to describe the present state of 
American poetry, I have but to sketch most briefly the 
history of the magazine, Contemporary Verse. Con- 
temporary Verse was founded at the beginning of the 
year 1916 as an all-poetry monthly by Howard S. 
Graham, Jr., Devereaux C. Josephs, and Samuel McCoy, 
three young graduates respectively of Pennsylvania, 
Harvard, and Princeton. Their idea was simply to pre- 
sent some of the vital work being done by the more 
normal and intelligible of the younger poets. A strong 
group of writers rallied to the new magazine, and such 
critics as the late Joyce Kilmer of The Literary Digest 
and William D. Howells in Harpers at once proclaimed 
it the best periodical of its kind. 

In January, 1917, Mr. Graham and Mr. Josephs were 
forced by other duties to retire from the editorial board, 
their places being filled by James E. Richardson and my- 
self. Our first act was the decision never to print in 
Contemporary Verse any of our own work, confining 
our editing to brief notes and quotations. Contem- 
porary Verse always stood for clean-cut thought and 



workmanship as opposed to the various eccentricities that 
were discouraging most lovers of poetry. During the 
first half of 1917, more in practice than in theory, we 
fixed our standards definitely for sincerity of feeling and 
directness of appeal. We wanted not merely to serve a 
small coterie of aesthetes, we wanted to help interpret 
America to herself. Most of the other magazines, we 
thought, were over-stressing the appeal of novelty. We 
believed that the growing power of American poetry 
could be shown to express itself in forms that an average 
person could enjoy. We wanted to progress, but we did 
not want to lose contact with the great mass of our 

At the start, the magazine had depended for material 
upon a score or so of well-known poets. Soon, however, 
we began to get many interesting manuscripts by un- 
known writers. In this situation we naturally decided 
to print, as Mr. Richardson put it, "not the who's who, 
but the what's what." Soon we became known as giving 
unusual consideration to new poets. Mr. John Masefield 
approved strongly of the closer-to-life type which we 
began to cultivate, and gave us the privilege of publish- 
ing his notable lyric, "The Choice." Most critics were 
emphatic as to the improvement of the magazine. 

Toward the end of 1917 we found it increasingly diffi- 
cult to arrange editorial conferences, as Mr. McCoy 
and Mr. Richardson were much tied down with news- 
paper work. It was therefore arranged that I should 
take over the entire management of Contemporary 
Verse, which I conducted alone until November, 1919, 



when Louise Townsend Nicholl became Associate Editor. 
The very marked increase in popularity which the maga- 
zine attained in 1918 had, I truly feel, very little to do 
with the personality or judgment of the editor. Con- 
temporary Verse had been established on sound prin- 
ciples and it was only a question of time before the 
right type of poets and subscribers would make the ven- 
ture an unqualified success. From his fiscal year of 
July, 1918, to July, 1919, Mr. Braithwaite selected more 
poems from Contemporary Verse for his Anthology of 
the best magazine poetry than he took from any other 
periodical. The New Republic proclaimed Contem- 
porary Verse as "The most successful of our magazines 
of verse," adding: "It is as interesting as the May 
woods." Furthermore, subscriptions doubled and news- 
paper quotation increased about fourfold. 

The present is, therefore, obviously a good time for 
us to attempt an anthology of the best work published 
in Contemporary Verse during the past four and a half 
years. Owing to frequent quotation and the many letters 
which the editor receives from friendly subscribers, it is 
an unusually easy task to select the best poems of the 
type which has gained the magazine its wide popularity. 
In order to prevent the duplication which is so annoying 
in many anthologies, no poems will be included which 
have appeared in the Second Volume of Modern Verse, 
edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse, or in Mr. Braithwaite 's 
1916-1918 volumes. Three very characteristic poems, 
by Leonora Speyer, John French Wilson, and Edwin 
Ford Piper, are in the Anthology for 1919, having been 



selected for this volume before Mr. Braithwaite's choice 
was known. Friends of Contemporary Verse will note 
the omission of some of our most famous contributors, 
such as Mr. Masefield, Mr. John Galsworthy, Mr. Sas- 
soon, Mr. Edwin A. Robinson, and Mr. Vachel Lindsay. 
We omit the English poets who have been our honored 
guests, because we wish to see what the United States 
can do "on its own"; we forbear adding the glamour of 
certain American names, ^because we want to stress the 
communal appeal rather than the highly individual. We 
are confident that no other book has ever shown how 
widespread are true poetic feeling and true poetic expres- 
sion in this country and generation. 

The great universal motives of the race: love of home, 
delight in outdoor nature, generous human sympathy, 
kindly humor, and a quiet, first-hand religious sense — 
all of these will be found in abundance. Recent develop- 
ments along the old lines appear in the more strenuous 
urge of modern life, the bold confronting of evil and in- 
justice, and, in connection with the war, the new unro- 
mantic type of heroism. In style these poems will, I 
think, be found more vivid, more compact, and more 
forceful than the older types. A greater range of form 
will be evident. A moderate number of free-verse ven- 
tures have been included, where genuineness of feeling 
and beautiful handling of its changing rhythms have 
seemed to justify the exceptions. 

It has been frequently said that no single author can 
ever succeed in expressing the United States. Perhaps, 
then, a hundred poets, representing all parts of the coun- 



try, may come nearer to the mark. Where, one may ask, 
is one likely to find more American idealism than in a 
volume such as this? By using only one-seventh of the 
poems available, it has been possible to unite sincere 
and wide appeal with comparatively finished expression. 
Though clear in presentation, some of the pieces are 
subtle in feeling, and few, I hope, will seem obvious 
except to the conscious "intellectuals." Whatever the 
reception of this particular anthology, it is, I profoundly 
believe, based on a true principle. The American people 
has a right to ask that poetry should express the thoughts 
and emotions of this generation in a style which can be 
widely understood and appreciated. 

For help in preparing this anthology I am primarily 
indebted to the Associate Editor, Miss Nicholl, but also 
in a hardly less degree to the periodicals and newspapers 
that have quoted from our pages, and to the numerous 
friends whose letters have shown us what poems were 
best fulfilling our special purpose. 

Charles Wharton Stork. 





A H, Life, press close thy passionate lips to mine 
jl\ Before we part; 
And let thy mad, ecstatic hunger throb 
Through all my heart. 

Oh haste the flood tide of thy glorious youth 

Through my slow veins, 
And strike this deadening palsy from my limbs 

With quickening pains. 

Then send me lilting, vibrant with thy song 
Upon the course that thou hast charted out. 

And give me all the tasks the weaklings shun; 
That triumphing, I prove beyond all doubt 

The high invincibility of Thee. 

And when my work is done, in Heaven's name 
Oh leave me not to flicker back to Thee 

A feeble, ever-dying little flame. 

But take me with a challenge in my throat, 
Clear-eyed and lusty, eager for the strife — 

Bursting all bonds for sheer excess of Thee; 
Then hurl me thrilling into keener Life. 

• • « 

. • • • . 



"ITTHAT though I die to-morrow? Now I live! 
▼ » To-day, close-packed with opportunity, 
Is mine; within whose span I may possess 
Laughter and tears, mayhap, and in one hour 
Run the whole scale 'twixt joy and deep despair. 
Warm sentient life, I know and love thee well! 
No dread of parting shall bedim that hour 
When all my Self shall pass and be dispersed 
To join the spacious breathing of the sky. 
For, to one Being — kindred to my own — 
To-day I have been all things beautiful. 
To one I am the stars, the light, the breath 
The music of the world set forth for him! 
And I am witchery and even woe — 
Woe of a quality akin to joy. 
The thought of me is subtly intertwined 
With twilight, and the wheeling swallow's cry ; 
With doorways dimly lit, and dark'ning fields; 
The long road's ending and the lantern's gleam; 
With little roofs adream beneath the moon. 
For I am that by which he is reborn; 
The dearness of the hearth by candlelight; 
The mystery wherein two spirits blend. 
I have the strange remoteness of the heavens 



And yet the patient nearness of the grass. 
I will not waste one hour to question why 
This old enchantment should have come to me; 
Love's shining eyes looked bravely into mine 
A moment since, and all my being sang 
"To-day is mine is mine and it is joy!" 





I LOVE the friendly faces of old Sorrows; 
I have no secrets that they do not know. 
They are so old, I think they have forgotten 
What bitter words were spoken, long ago. 

I hate the cold, stern faces of new Sorrows 
Who stand and watch, and catch me all alone. 

I should be braver if I could remember 
How different the older ones have grown. 


HE nurses there among his crags 
His naughty schemes — 
And he may snatch my elfin purse 
That's stuffed with dreams; 

But I have wealth he cannot touch, 

Spoiler of kings! 
For I have tasted agony 

And worn joys wings. 


THERE'S a mellower light just over the hill, 
And somewhere a yellower daffodil, 
And honey, somewhere, that's sweeter still. 

And some were meant to stay like a stone, 

Knowing the things they have always known, 
Sinking down deeper into their own. 

But some must follow the wind and me, 

Who like to be starting and like to be free, 
Never so glad as we're going to be! 



The silence, stretched to a great tensity, 
Snapped — and the dark 'house rumbled and crashed. 
It shook that pit of blackness, slashed 
With a long, flickering sword of light 
That beat in vain against a white 
Cloth wall hard in its brilliancy. 
The thunder grew; it roared approvingly: 
A lustiness, gargantuan and clean, 
As he, 

Doug Fairbanks, 
Prodigal and playboy, 

Leaped on and almost out beyond the screen. 
The ribbon flickered faster, drew 
Its hero through a maze of tangled scenes and flew 
Out of the heavy, humdrum world. 
He took the people with him ; caught and hurled 
Them back to boyishness and bravery again. 
Madness; gay violence ruled the scene . . . 
There was a race, a chase, a storm of soundless blows. 
Laughing he bowled a dozen gun-men over . . . 
Stopped for a flash to be a high-speed lover . . . 

The American 

Baffled the plugs and thugs . . . Hurdled a 

fence . . . 
Ruined his dress-suit . . . Thought it im- 
mense . . . 
Leaped three landings . . . Squirmed through a 

crack . . . 
Jumped from a window to his pony's back. 
Beat out the Limited 
Soared like a bird. 
Jumped into a Packard. 

Shot her into third. 
Reached the ruined building. 

Scaled up a wall. 
Burst into the meeting. 

Cornered them all. 
Trapped the whole camorra. 

Made their short hairs curl. 
Freed the lovely lady. 

("Close up" with the girl.) 

The last kiss faded out; the brightness thinned. 
Hands clattered in a tempest of applause; 
(A thousand white leaves pattering in the wind) 
Glory turned garish in the following pause. 
The audience shrank with it, looked and grinned 
Sheepishly at itself, then turned to see 
What the next number on the bill might be. 
A fat man sang "J hear you calling me." 


The American 

But something still persisted, something crude; 

Childishly boisterous, palpably absurd. 

And yet it spelled America in rude 

Large letters; told without a word 

The essence of our boyhood, the young spirit 

Surer of naught than what we may inherit; 

Intrepid faith that does not stop to pray 

And strength that springs from a child's love of play ; 

Reckless, spontaneous, prodigal, immense, 

Taking no thought of cost or consequence. 

Again life flickered from the shining reels: — 

A lady vampire posed with a pet snake. 

Six odd-sized clowns, late of the burlesque "wheels," 

Dressed as policemen, fell into a lake. 

A lisping tenor, painted to the eyes 

Came out and squeaked "We're going to smash the 

Hun" . . . 
Apd still the spell remained. Out of the lies 
And cheap hypocrisies it rose and spun 
Its kindred strands of fantasy and fun, 
Of gaiety unconquerable and wise, 
Of the brash boy in us that never dies 
But keeps us better than a text or truth, 
Bound to the bright democracy of youth. 



WHAT if the lapse of ages were a dream, 
From which we waked, clutching the primal 
Seeing familiar thunder-piercing crags, 
Vast dripping woods, and saurian-bellowed swamps, 
That wearied the new heavens with their noise, 
Wild seas, that maddened, foaming, ever gnawed 
At fog-wrapped cliffs, and roaring in defeat, 
Ran to eye-wearying distance, without shore — 
All things familiar; but our dull ape minds 
Troubled with visions vague; the hungry roar 
Of the great sabred tiger far below 
Seeming in our wild dream the thund'rous sound 
Of hurtling heated monsters, made of steel; 
And the God-scattered worlds that gem the sky 
Seeming in vision dread the blinding glare 
Of myriad windows in huge range on range 
Of mountain buildings, teeming o'er with life. 
The wallowing pleiosaurus' gurgling snort 
Changed in our dream to rhythmic, panting roar 
Of black insensate steel amphibians, 
Daring the oceans dread horizon line; 


What If the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? 

And the high flap of pterodactyl wings 

Making us whine with fear, for, in our dream, 

We saw vast lifeless birds, that roaring flew, 

Commanded by weak puny likenesses 

Of our ape-selves; we cringed with terrors vague 

Of ungrasped thoughts we could not understand — 

What if the lapse of ages were a dream? 




BY furious fire begotten, 
From patient iron I rose; 
Stern hammers were the midwives ; 
My birth-caresses, blows. 

Of fire that dares and iron that bides. 
Thy fierce, grim soul had stuff and form, 

That flouts the touch and kiss of tides, 
And sets its strength against the storm. 

The work to me appointed: 

In coral, mud, or sand, 
To strike, and grip my hardest; 

And, having gripped, to stand. 


Unseen thou striv y st, save by dark bulks 
That watch thee struggling in the ooze, 

Or staring ports of crusted hulks, 
Or orbless eye-pits of their crews. 

The beds of many waters 
Have felt my earnest grip, 

That saves from death or straying 
My pretty, foolish ship. 


The Anchor 

The desperate bark, with strife fordone, 
Sea, earth, and air her foemen, trusts 

Thy grasp, fell set where many a one 
Of thy abandoned brethren rusts. 

Tho last they slip my cable 

To save my ship — forlorn, 
Forgot, to rust — what matter? 

I shall have striven and bome. 

Lord God of Effort, grant me such 

A grave as this. Be it my lot 
Having done and borne, to sleep, nor much 

To care how much men say, or what 




THERE is defeat where death gives anodyne 
And all desires of the battle wane 
In deep forgetfulness, and the one slain 
Lies with his face turned toward the firing-line. 
There is defeat where flesh fails the design 
Of Spirit, and the groping, tortured brain 
Sees glories lost it cannot win again. 
And wears itself out like effect of wine. 

But no defeat is quite so imminent 

To common ways as the defeat Success 

Turns into when it puts aside the dreams 

That made it be, and, somehow, grows content 

With what it is, forever giving less 

Until it is not, and no longer seems. 



(Translated from the French of Charles Vildrac.) 


THEY have sat down together for a little drink; 
They are leaning with all their weight on their 
Their words are meeting and their eyes 
And their cheeks and voices and eyes are laughing 

across the table, 
And what good ones they're telling! 
They are really happy, for the moment; 
They are really happy to be together; 
And yet! . . . 

And yet, 

If tomorrow they have to hurry through a door 

Not wide enough for two 

Where one must pass after the other 

They will pause before it 

With an ugly change in their faces, 

With an ugly look at each other, 

And a slanting look toward the door. 

As dogs, with a bone between them, 
Growl, warning each other off, 
So may these two become tomorrow, or tonight, 
These two who now are friends because of little 
drink . . . 


The Two Drinkers 

— That is true enough and it's sad too 
But that's not the way to say it! 
This is the way to say it: 

These two men who are laughing 

Might be fighting for no reason: 

They might find a thousand reasons 

To be fighting; 

There are reasons a-plenty! 

They need only pick, they need only choose! 

But no: 

Deep in that old heart of theirs, 

In the secret need of union and of mirth, 

And in a moment of unbending, 

While the spite of life has left that poor old heart to 

See how their eyes are laughing, 
See how they slap each other's shoulders, 
See how they have no doubt of each other, 
See how they like to offer each other drinks, 
And what good ones they're telling! 




WHEN he tumbles out of bed at daybreak, 
The old care-taker curses and swears, 
And when he tumbles in again at night 
He swears and curses. v 

If the morning coffee is poor 

Or the evening meal is tardy, — 

He calls on the Almighty to blast them, 

And assigns his wife who made them 

To an unrighteous and ignominious end. 

What he says about physical parts and processes 

Brings a blush to the cheeks of the sedate and decorous 

Who pretend that they do not hear him, 

Yet remain within earshot 

And thrill inwardly 

At the rank perfume of the speech. 

He looks at the errand boy 

As his muddy feet 

Leave tracks on the clean tiles, 

And with slow deliberate sentences 

He makes clear the immoral relations 

Of the errand boy's immediate family 

And every one of his ancestors 

All the way back to Judas Iscariot and Cain. 



"Profanity do you call it?" 
.Mutters the old grouch 
On the top floor, 
I call it Romance 
Gasping for breath 
In gray reality 1" 




TRAVELING at dusk the noisy city street, 
I listened to the newsboys' strident cries 
Of "Extra," as with flying feet, 

They strove to gain this man or that — their prize. 
But one there was with neither shout nor stride, 

And, having bought from him, I stood near-by, 
Pondering the cruel crutches at his side, 

Blaming the crowd's neglect, and wondering why — 
When suddenly I heard a gruff voice greet 

The cripple with, "On time to-night? w 
Then, as he handed out the sheet, 

The Youngster's answer — "You're all right. 
My other reg'lars are a little late. 

They'll find I'm short one paper when they come; 
You see, a strange guy bought one in the wait, 

I thot 'twould cheer him up — he looked so glum I" 

So, sheepishly I laughed, and went my way, 
For I had found a city's heart that day. 




THEAH ? S a man up the street 
Ah'm jus' itchin' tuh meet — 
He's the man with the slidin' trombone, 
Ah don't understand 
How he does it so gran* 
But he sho' gits uh wonderful tone. 
That Mendels'n Song — 
He jus' rags it uh-long 
An' zoons it right intuh mah soul. 
When he plays "Ovuh Theah" 
Ev'ry kink in my haih 
Jus' natchully stahts tuh unroll. 
Mistah Man, Mistah Honey, 
Take me an* mah money, 
Whenevuh yo' want me Ah'm yo'n. 
Ah'll cook while yo' eat — 
Shine the shoes on yo' feet — 
If yo'll play on that slidhV trombone. 




WAN of de boot-black on de ferra-boat, 
I watcha de beeg crowd' goin' back an* fort', 
And a queekly count de feet dat might be wort* 
A leetla dime for mekdem shiny coat. 

Great many feet I watcha een a day I 

Wan vera leetla shoes I have-a shine' 

Wit' holes een toes dat should have been een fine 

Warm boots, de owner was so vera gay 

So vera sweet to look at een de eyes! 
I lak to shine dos leetla toes for her. 
Wan day I see a man, dressed lak chauffeur, 
And leetla lady looka at de skies 

And tek de han's ; I look de odder way, 
And all de night I teenk of leetla wan, 
She have look up so loveeng een de sun, 
And not care what de beega crowd might say. 

And een de morn' when ferra-boat eet start 
I shine for her de leetla shabby toes, 
And she say "Tony" (red-a lak a rose) 
"Shine beeg today, for I have geev' my heart, 



And when I come tonight, my leetla friend 
I show you someteeng on dees lefta han\ 
He ees so fine a man, so vera gran'! 
I shan' be on dees ferra-boat again!" 

But when de night eet come, she come alone 
An' creep into de dark behin' de stair, 
An' when I pass I see her crying dere, 
And when I spik she give me leetla moan. 

Poor leetla wan! Poor laugheeng leetla rose! 
I watch de many feet dat pattera past, 
And count de faces hurryeeng so fast — 
But never see dos shabby leetla toes! 




THE street was dark enough, but on the wharves 
The piles and stacks and careless heaps of goods 
Mottled the darkness with % a deeper hue, 
Like gobs of ink spilled on a piece of slate. 
The moon that should have been was smothered out, 
And not a star point pierced the folds of cloud. 
Came but the lap of waters on the piles, 
And farther, out of nothingness, the bleat 
Of some belated prowler of the deep. 
I stood with hands in pockets, listlessly, 
Watching the silent shapes that filled the pier, 
And thinking of my unrequited thoughts, 
When suddenly a shadow seemed to move 
Out of the darkness into blacker dark 
Ahead of me. I started, and felt my lids 
Lifting until the sea breeze stung my eyes, 
And I must blink, and then the moon was out, 
And facing it a woman, motionless. 
I started forward, and as quickly back, 
Shrinking against a packing case to wait. 
Full in the moon she stood, a marble form, 
Mellow and round before the moon's regard, 
Yet gaunt and palpable as any cur, 
Advertisement of mange and much abuse, 


Pier 6 

Ragged in outline and a thing of rags. 

Slowly she moved, and casting off the shawl 

That hid her last injustice for a while, 

She raised a ragged bundle in her arms, 

And tottered to the splintered edge, and crouched. 

But as she paused, before I caught my breath, 

The baby in the bundle wailed aloud, 

And fell to whimpering incessantly. 

The woman shivered, and then stepping back, 

Held with one hand the bundle on her thigh, 

And with the other fumbled at her waist, 

And bared her breast, and bent above the child. 




THE watchman walked the little streets 
With slow and steady tread ; 
He swung his lantern as he went, — 
"All's well!" the watchman said. 

Behind close blinds a woman sat 

Who had no more to sell; 
The watchman paused before her door 

"All's well!" he cried, "All's well!" 

An old man shivered in the dark 

Who had no bread to eat; 
Echoed the watchman's cry, "All's well!" 

Along the empty street. 

The watchman passed a silent house 

Wherein a child had died; 
A candle burned against the pane, — 

"All's well!" the watchman cried. 

All through the night the watchman passed 

With slow and steady tread; 
And ever to the little streets 

"All's well!" the watchman said. 




GOD pity all the brave who go 
The common way, and wear 
No ribboned medals on their breasts, 
No laurels on their hair. 

God pity all the lonely folk 
With griefs they do not tell, 

Women waking in the night, 
And men dissembling well. 

In common courage of the street 
The crushed grape is the wine, 

Wheat in the mill is daily bread 
And given for a sign. 

And who but God shall pity them 

Who go so quietly? 
And smile upon us when we meet, 

And greet us pleasantly. 




I CAN feel at my breast 
Your tiny hand a-stray, 
And your lips clinging pressed, 
And the weight of you at rest, 

As if you truly lay 
Where my curved arm dreams to hold you. 

You so little, you so dear! 
Soft I let my love enfold you; 
In the dark, with none to see, 

I bend to bring my breast more near; 
Feel you drinking, drinking me. 




SHE never had a pattern all her own, 
But from the scattered scraps of other lives, 
The remnants that the others did not want, 
She pieced a patch-work that she called her soul. 

Broken, irregular, 

Small bits of color, 

Pieced on a background of dull brown and gray. 

Faded, discarded, 

Carefully fitted, 

She pieced her a life from what they threw away. 

Their lives were made in regular designs, 
Their years were blocks of color and of beauty. 
Lucy pieced love. John squares of engineering, 
But all they left for her was service, duty 

Sometimes a square, 

Once a pink rose, 

Haphazard blocks made of small tasks they shirked, 

Sewing, nursing, 

Keeping the home, 

The others had pleasure; she merely worked. 



She never had a pattern all her own, 
And yet from what she had she pieced a soul; 
A crazy-quilt, perhaps, that no one wants, 
A life that never even knew a goal 




T AM the city demoniac! Desolate, mournful, in- 
* fernal 

Dweller apart among and upon the amazing hills, 
Seen of the poet of hell, I am she, the dark, the un- 
Cybele, wearing my crown of fantastic mines and 
mills ! 
My breasts are girdled with iron; and under the place 
of my feet 
Is copper, and over my head in a green and copper 
A sulphurous sun goes by and I find his going sweet. 
My sisters have many jewels — is any so strange 
as I? 

I am the secret of night, transformed from an evil 
To a dream of passionate hope! A blur and cluster 
of stars, 
A galley of tremulous light, I lift from my anchor and 
Outbound for the farthest ports that lie past the 
lighthouse Mars! 


A Song of Butte 

I splinter the darkness with glory, I burn like fire on 
the hills, 
I am Caerleon and Usk! I am the hurt of the 
Because of my lonely beauty the soul takes thought 
and fills 
Till I cause the pulse to leap that I stayed with 
horror at noon. 

I am the city cast out, harlot and common scold 

Shrilling loud in the street, the taunter of all ye love, 
Holding what others scorn, scorning what others hold, 
Flaunting the vulgar shame my sisters are reticent 
I am the mistress of many, untrue and adulterous 
Naked, tawdry, Priapian ; Lo, and what sin is mine? 
They who have kissed farewell on my painted lips, 
have seen 
My sisters are hypocrite souls that blush for their 
lust and wine. 

I am also the scoffer, the tester, the prover of life ! 
This one comes to me pure and I make him dirty and 
This one comes to me lewd, and forth from my iron 
Joyous he goes and proud, and clean as a bride is 
clean 1 


A Song of Butte 

sisters, look to your courts! Can ye look and say 

as much? 
How doth it stand with you? Have ye builded over 

a fen, 
That your white- faced, pasty brood shrinks back from 

my hurt and smutch? 
They that go down in my bowels and grip me are 

not as your men ! 

1 am likewise the challenge, the mixing of many in 

Lustful, reckless, I yield to the urge of life and the 
A myriad races come and beneath my dispassionate 
I mix and change and remold and send them, a 
nation, back; 
Indifferent seeker and spurner, I lure from city and 
Italian, negro and Slav. Their foster-mother am I ! 
And the man-child tugs at my breast and is nourished 

and knows no more 
The sound of an alien tongue or the heat of a foreign 

I am also the spirit, the city chosen of God, 

Vast and pregnant seeker, aspirer and knower of 
I that search in the earth for dross go also abroad 
Rousing my sisters that sleep, contented, beside their 

A Song of Butte 

On a riddling quest I go as the ancient mother went — 
My sisters, ye look ashamed when my asking foot- 
steps come, 
But under my breast I bear the answer the Riddler 
I am Democracy's mother 1 sisters, why are ye 




HP HERE is a man within a grimy window-square; 

* I do not know how long it is he has been there — 

Three years of working-days I've passed on trains 

high in the air, 
And always he was there. 
He makes three motions: two are forward and one 

Two thrusts and then a draw. There is no pause 

(the knack 
Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack 
Leather — I think — the track 
Curves sharp, and will not let me see 
Just what the task . . . But 0, 1 know the moves 

he makes are three: 
I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me, 
Again at night, when I am free. 

No clod — 

The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and 

tense, like wire. 
From some far land he came to us: was his desire 
To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre 

He burns, I think . . . dull fire. 




I LIFT my gaze from one poet's book, 
Archaic, pallid, uncterwise, 
Then stop my strained and fretful look- 
Why, here's a poem before my eyes! 

Not in the books, whose marshalled rows 
Wait for my seeking to disclose 
Their thin and varied thus-and-soes; 

Not in the iris flower of June, 
That proudly spills its purple boon, 
A wordless, soundless, fragrant tune; 

Not in the waiting ivory keys, 
Nor the room's pleasant harmonies, 
Sweet with disheveled memories ; 

My restless eyes achieve their rest, 
Break to a smile, and ponder where, 

With face at peace and moveless breast, 
My tired young wife lies sleeping there. 


The Poem 


Peace on her face, peace in this room — 

Oh, it is far to the flaring gloom 

Where war's strange, fiery flowers bloom. 

Immobile breast and moveless air- 
On, it is far to red roads where 
Torn bodies twitch, and still, eyes stare. 

0, can there be so sad a place, 

Where writhes a self- destructive race? . • ■ 

Immobile breast, peace in her face. 


Her gentle breathing scarce unfurls 

The tiniest of her sleeping curls. 

The eyes are closed, the soul withdrawn; 

The wax cheeks show a gentle flush 

As when the East begins to dawn; 

As quiet is her couch's hush. 

One hand is cupped beneath her brow; 

The other lies with fingers still 

Upon the coverlet; and now 

She almost smiles, as some deep thrill, 

Dream- woven, has its vagrant will. 


Where do you wander, 
Out in your dreams? 
What gay adventures, 


The Poem 

What sombre journeys, 
What wings upbear you 
As you accomplish 
All your hid longings? 

Do you climb lonely, 
Sky-secret mountains? 
Do .you grope blindly, 
Leaden, foot-hindered, 
Thru threatening caverns? 
Do you face dangers, 
Stormy gray sea-ways, 
Night-haunted sorrows? 
And am I with you, 
I, the beloved . . . 
Or do you fly me, 
Me, a dream-enemy? 

May you tread safely 
In your far dreaming, 
Gaining the goals! 


Ah, you seem so sound asleep! 
Body laved in stillness deep, 
Soul, whose silent slumbers keep 

Far away the restlessness 
Of the stupid world's distress, 
Plastic to the dream's caress. 


The Poem 

And I am so far away, 

Here, where my quick fancies play 

With your quiet self today ! 

Why seek in a printed place, 
When in her sleeping beauty lies, 

With moveless breast and peaceful face, 
A very poem before my eyes? 




SIR, he is not for sale; 
Only a snow-white dove 
Found in the wilderness 
Singing of love; 
In a dead wilderness, 
Singing of love. 

Sir, I but seek to find 
Who might his master be ; 
Then I will yield my bird 
Freely and cheerily. 
Asking no fee in turn, 
Giving him blithely. 

Ah, he has flown from mel 
Gone with a whirring wing. 
Sir, in your bosom, see, 
My bird is fluttering; 
Nestling against your breast, 
Singing and fluttering. 




WHY did you not hold me with chains 
Of steel all dull and cold 
That I might strain against their strength 
As long as they could hold? 

That I might see the links sink in 
My flesh and make blood flow, 
While I could hope to break my chains 
And hurl them down and go! 

But in these chains you hold me with, 
Only my Spirit frets — 
For who could use brute force to break 
A chain of violets! 




THE lake was not more calm or clear 
Than was your voice. Your words alone 
Were plain enough, "God drew us near," 
Yet there was logic in your tone. 
Since doubting you had cost me pain, 
I clutched at timid hope again, 
When up from the reeds with sudden whirr 
Of heavy wings, a coot swung high 
His somber body stretched to blurr 
The paling sun against the sky. 
I turned to seek my swift surprise 
Repeated in your radiant eyes, 
And met your steady earnest gaze 
No spread of wings could set ablaze, 
And then I knew how far apart 
y?e really were from heart to heart. 




HE day that love came down to me, 
Now must I dress me well, said she. 

Since he has only mortal ears 
And only mortal language hears, 
I must give up my native tongue 
And many a native song I've sung. 

I must put on a mortal veil, 
And all for him my wonders pale ; 
Leaving my boundless home above me, 
I'll be a girl, that he may love me. 

And yet my love could not disguise, 
When she came down, her deathless eyes. 




THE cloak of laughter I have worn 
Has only served to hide the smart. 
The bells and bladder I have born 

Could wake no echo in my heart. 
And all the places where I go 

Are sweet with memories of you yet. 
The laughing footsteps of Pierrot 
Are always searching for Pierrette. 

Upon my face a painted smile, 

Upon my lips a scarlet stain, 
Before my feet an endless mile, 

That I must dance, despite the pain. 
Along the road red poppies grow, 

Perhaps your scarlet lips have set 
Upon their petals, for Pierrot, 

A tithe of kisses, dear Pierrette. 

The lips I knew have left their scars, 
Each rose beneath had hid a thorn, 

Your love was lost among the stars, 
I could not wait until the morn. 


A Song of Pierrot 

The night was lonesome, love, and so 
I sought the roses to forget. 

But they have withered and Pierrot 
Longs for the kisses of Pierrette. 

If in your place, you hear my song, 

Hear, too, beneath, the strain of tears, 
I dance before the grinning throng. 

Their mocking laughter fills my ears, 
My giddy steps are all they know. 

They do not see my eyes are wet. 
I am a tired, lost Pierrot, 

Where are you hiding, my Pierrette? 


Ah princess, I shall never know! 

You smile and smile and say, "Forget" 
The tears and laughter of Pierrot 

Are but the playthings of Pierrette. 




YOU blew my future away with a breath, 
As the little white feathers are blown from the 
Leaving only a knob and a stalk 
Where once in the long grass shone a golden blossom. 

But for this may I not forgive you? 
The future is lost only to be made again — 
From the blown seed-pods again sunny blossoms 

But 0, once dear, you have taken the past, 

And trodden it under your feet like a spent rose leaf. 

You have left no beauty uncrushed within it. 

No sorrow made fragrant by memories can be mine, 

For you have taken my memories one by one; 

You have stripped them and torn them until I dare 

not look. 
And for that you would not leave my past unhurt 
In its sheltered garden of old beauty, 
I cannot forgive you. 




THE littlest door, the inner door, 
I swing it wide. 
Now in my heart there is no more 
To hide. 

The farthest door — the latch at last 

Is lifted; see. 
I kept the little fortress fast. 

— Be good to me. 




I SHALL remember you as wistfulness, 
As petulance, and shadowy romance. 
Growing more vivid as the years advance 
You shall remain my memory. The dress 
You wore on one impassible, proud day, 
The way your hair meandered, tricks of speech, 
All these, my riches, shall far overreach 
Youth's gradual withdrawal, and decay. 

There was no giving, no, and naught of asking, — 
We were too filled with wonderment and awe. 
There was no sudden, sensual unmasking 
To dissipate the beauty that we saw. 
You shall remain intact, and always new 
For dreams were all I ever had of youl 





AH, love, within the shadow of the wood 
The laurels are cut down; some other brows 
May bear the classic wreath which Fame allows 
And find the burden honorable and good. 
Have we not passed the laurels as they stood — 
Soft in the veil with which the Spring endows 
The wintry glitter of their woven boughs — 
Nor stopped to break the branches while we could? 

Ah, love, for other brows they are cut down. 
Thornless and scentless are their stems and flowers, 
And cold as Death their twisted coronal. 
Sweeter to us the sharpness of this crown; 
Sweeter the wildest roses which are ours; 
Sweeter the petals, even when they fall. 




I HAVE heard him speak my name 
Passionately, like a word of flame, 
And a young girl might gay 
This was love's only, truest, way. 

She would not understand 
How the brief, half gruff command 
Of his voice, weary or sick, 
Touches so deeply the heart's quick. 

How, when he says "dear," or, "dearest," absently, 
The words are precious and their tone to me; 
Though it should happen he turned not his head; — 
Unconscious, almost, that the words are said. 

They are a use and custom of his tongue. 

Words are more fierce when they are new and young, 

But have they not a dearer hold, 

When use and happy frequence turn them old? 

Love, broadening, forgets the early need 
To say itself in words; to charm and plead: 
Love, broadening, diffuses its wild might; 
Habitual grows, like breath and sight. 



Like sight, or breath, a certitude, 
A priceless good; but unthanked good: 
Too sure, too long, long known for speech; 
Too wide for proof of words to reach. 




IT may have been a light elusive thing, 
Yet at the time the joy of it possessed me. 
And afterwards a furtive wish obsessed me 
To make it his: to seize his thoughts, and bring 
Such cunning to my words that he should guess, 
The living magic of its loveliness. 

So, after penance of long waiting, I 

Told swiftly all, 

Not watching him, but gazing at the wall, 

My thoughts caught back, yet poised as if to fly, 

I watched for some small gesture, or a word 

To show he understood what he had heard. 

Silent and still he was; and suddenly 

My heart dived down, then rallied, beating quickly, 

Swerving from doubt to faith ; and then a sickly 

Feeling of impotence swept over me. 

Daring at last 1 took a furtive peep, 

And watched him sleep! 

Then came distaste: and afterwards bruised blankness, 
The blankness of a mind without a mood; 


By the Hearth 

My thoughts, wrung dry, went wandering till they 

Angry and hard at friendship going thankless; 
Then as his breathing turned to rhythmic sighing, 
I found that I was crying. 

If he had wakened I had never known 
A gentle thing that I have come to know. 
But long he slept. The shadows deepened so 
I almost would have thought myself alone 
Save that his courtly deference to convention 
Kept for his form a posture of attention. 

At sight of which I wept more bitterly, 

Not for my pleasure, ruthlessly desired; 

For knowledge that he labored and grew tired 

To light this hearth and keep it safe, for me. 

"I dreamed of you," he said "I must have slept. 
"I dreamed you wept." 



I SOMETIMES wonder why men say 
So very much of love; 
I sometimes think they little know 
What they are talking of, 

For when I felt your closing arms 

My heart sang like a bird; 
I lay all night upon your breast 

And never spoke a word. 




BECAUSE I loved you not nor let you speak, 
Your silence in my memory sings. 
Like God, your patience obstinate and meek, 
Waits at the heart of things. 

A still, strong purpose you, a hoarded light, 
(Against your day your watch you keep), 
Shadow and silence, things most exquisite, 
The condolence of sleep. 

And when life falls from round me, leaves me stark, 
Only a blind need through and through, 

As wounded beasts crawl off to find the dark, 
I know my way to you. 




MY studio windows overhead are black 
Save for the shimmer of wet lights from the 
And in my woman's heart a sudden lack, 
An undertone of something incomplete! 

little human child here in the rain 
Unlike my painted miniatures up there — 

The careful workmanship of hand and brain, 
Cherubs with violet eyes and gold-spun hair — 

changing, wistful face so eager-bright 
And restless mouth so quick to smile or pout, 

1 wish my arms could gather you to-night 

And hear you breathing when the light is out! 




MY father gently took my hand; 
I left the nursery willingly: 
Perhaps I soon should understand 
Those tip-toe people, and why he 
Cried so, and where mamma could be. 
In mother's room he dropped my hand. 

I moved to where my mother lay; 
Outside, a running wind went by — 

It had been shouting all the day — 
Grey clouds had dirtied all the sky, 
And all day I had longed to cry ; 

Somehow I could not laugh or play. 

Her coverlet was cold and white, 
Her face was whiter; still and pale 

(Like the new snow of yesternight) 
She lay; her dear hand — Oh so frail 1 
Faltered toward mine: I saw it fail — 

I caught a snow-flake, cold and light. 

Her eyes were framed in shadows ; they 
Were dark, like purple pansies' eyes; 


My Mother 

"Come close to me!" they seemed to pray. 

Mine stared back, moist with vague surprise; 

Frightened, I said (big tears would rise) : 
"Why won't you talk to me to-day?" 

My mother did not stir or speak 
Save from deep eyes. I knelt; and she 

With straining fingers touched my cheek. 
Outside, I heard a wrestling tree 
Tap at the window fitfully; 

Behind me I heard floor-boards creak. 

My father led me to the door, 

I glanced back, very wistfully: 
Her eyes, still on me as before, 

Were like two arms stretched out toward me. 

And then we went out, I and he, 
I never saw her any more. 




npO the old home, 

Through the wild country-ways and meadows 
Lo — I am come: 
Drawn are the blinds, quenched is the lonely lamp 

And dark the door. 

The crickets chirp and the cicadas sing, 

But nevermore 

Comes the quick step, the dear voice answering. 

Long though I knock, 

Never the eager answer comes, they will 

Never unlock — 

So hushed the night, so deep and starry-still. 

Ah fain, how fain — 

From the fierce terror and the loneliness, 

Anguish insane 

And dreadful secret that you may not guess — 

The starry Vast 

Inexorable of everlasting law, 

Tomb of the Past, 

And endless reaches of the ancient Awe, 


Return After Death 

With horrors rife — 

Star upon star forever strewn abroad, 

The thrones of life 

In the dark universe dethroned of God — 

With what desire, 

Ah, with what longing that you cannot know! 

To the warm fire, 

The cosy hearth and faces all- aglow, 

Dear eyes that burn, 

The old, familiar jokes and questions dear, 

We, lost, return, 

Calling with voices that you cannot hear! 

Night, deep and still: 

Empty, into the dark, the windows stare. 

A whip-poor-will 

Cries like the Past upon the patient air. 

But where it lies, 

The thing I was, the shell of me, they kneel 

With burning eyes, 

And in mute prayer to the Unknown appeal. 

Here on the shore 

And coast of the illimitable night 


Lies the lost shell and home of my delight, 


Return After Death 

Where passion reigned, 

Where ecstasy drew hushed and hurried breath, 

Where love disdained 

To stain her triumph with the thought of death. 

O pang too sheer 

Of all that has been and may never be I 

Anguish austere, 

And wild regret of all eternity 1 




I'VE lived so long companionless 
In this old house bowed down with years, 
IVe come to welcome loneliness, 

Converse with dreams and sit with fears. 

Often and often in the night, 

When I have laid some dull book down, 
One comes between me and the light 

With terrible, unrustling gown. 

Wistful as moonlight in the room, 
Her face sways, luminous with fire 

Of eyes unsmothered by the tomb, 
Of lips remembering still desire. 

And there beside the lute she stands — 

With little eager flutterings 
She stretches out her pulseless hands, 

And only thrusts them through the strings! 

No way to bring her longing near 
Who has no heart to beat and break, 

Nor any way that she can hear 
The sounds her lost touch can not make. 


In An Old House 

Oh who will sit here wondering 
Some other night and watch me steal 

Close to a loved, familiar thing 
With hands that reach but do not feel? 



IN the sunlight and the moonlight, 
In the low-hung desert starlight, 
Stands an old forsaken 'dobe, 
Like a grim, distorted dream; 
And its lidless eyes look westward, 
Its low ceiling seeps, and crumbles, 
While the bats hang down like dusky rags 
From one long rafter-beam. 

In the old, forsaken 'dobe, 
Lizards dart, all green and golden, 
And the rattler trails its diamond length 
Along the earthen floor. 
And an old, blind, limping pinto, 
Fumbling, 'mong the rocks and rubble, 
In the fury of the sand-storm 
Stumbles through the gaping door. 

In the old forsaken 'dobe 
Coyotes slink and barn-owls slither, 
And the swoop of seeking buzzard 
Haunts the pinon-scented air; 
On the hearth a ruby cactus 


The Ruined 'Dobe 

Bloom — a strangely-twisted candle, 
When the wind from off the mesa 
Makes its petals flame and flare. 

On a shelf within the 'dobe, 
There are cups of clay, soft-colored. 
In a nook, a cedar cradle, 
And a thimble, and a glove. 
While around the ruins, mountains,- 
Purpled with the wine of shadow, — 
Cast a wistful benediction 
On the broken dream of love. 




HOLD me, hold me, love — your lips are life! 
Here on your heart my heart now understands; 
Home have I come at last from alien lands — 
A pilgrim through the darkness to your eyes I 

Hold me, my love — I know the answer now, 
wayward, ever wandering feet of man — 
Always the journey ends where it began! . . . 
Out of my mother's arms into your own I 

Hold me, my love, serene against your breast, 
The sun takes up the wave and gives the rain. 
Over the dead the grass is green again. 
The lark is singing on the ruined wall. 




SUPPOSE one never heard of Valley Forge, 
And Washington were nothing but a name 
Cut in the rock of some Virginian gorge 
Where never anything but swallows came. 

Suppose December on the Delaware 
Had never known that bleeding, swift retreat. 
To-day would be a day as others are 
With less of colored bunting in the street. 

And nothing would be absent from these trees 
Which wait for April, and the starling's song 
Would be as happy and as harsh as these 
Shrill notes the gray wind blows along. 

And the careless music of fast-melting snows 
Would ripple in the gutters and be gone, 
And crocuses would follow, and the rose 
Return, and the bright world go on. 





\/E ho, for the song of the lark; 
«*■ For the spiralling lark with his song; 
With his full-throated praise so strong 1 
Like joy beams from the sun 
His happy trillings run! 
Ye ho, for the song of the lark! 

Ye ho, for the smell of the loam; 

For the smile of the new-born day; 

For the little house over the way ; 

For the strength to plow 

And the knowledge how! 

Ye ho, for the smell of the loam! 




I STOOD at twilight making bread, 
Sifting salt and soft white flour; 
I thought of children gone to bed 
At this hour; 

Gone to bed with flowers and bees, 
Fists and blossoms curled up tight 
Till candles fail, and dawn breeze 
Scatters night. 

Through the windows I could see 
Stars, and branches, fading day. 
To some one passing what would be 
The thought to stay? 

Windy branches, starry stair? 
Children tumbling into bed? 
Or would it be my shadow there, 
Making bread? 



COLORS like cries of delight from the lips of a 
Leapt from a cart by the curb of a comer I passed. 
The oars of a golden galley dipped swirling through 

Of azure and opal. The ancient Hesperides 
Lifted for landfall, and loud with the heroes I laughed! 

Blinded by blue we staggered ashore on a strand 
Of golden sand to the gorgeous gardens their gate, 
Where beautiful birds trilled embowered — but bright 

in midsward, 
Burnished of scale and claw, crouched Ladon, to guard 
The Fruit and the footing of maidens that minstreled 

its fate. 

And, dispersing this dream, still another, — bright Bag- 
dad's bazaars 

With the slow-footed camels from Yemen that lan- 
guidly glide, 

And, in turban and caftan, some retinue of the viziers, 

Black eunuchs with cimeters, guards with their glim- 
mering spears 

Round the litters of houris close-veiled to the harem 
who ride 

The Push-Cart 

Where some banquet is spread to bedazzle the eyes of 
a djinn, 

Where the hues of piled peaches, of apricots, pome- 
granates, plums 

And oranges, flicker like heaps of such jewels as blazed 

From Sinbad's deep Valley of Diamonds, turning him 
crazed ! 

Giant blacks draw the curtains apart — and the great 
Caliph comes! 

Old proser in charge of your push-cart, — ye gods, if 
you knew 

The grandeurs of purple and gold and rich crimson you 

"Two for five — three for five," with a grin and a greasy 
swart hand, 

As you chatter and shrug with that boy of the boot- 
blacking stand, — 

Why, your button-black eyes would grow bulging! . . . . 
Perhaps 'tis as well ! 

You'd be sure to go treading on clouds till, like him on 

the Field 
Of Mars, that a cloud took and rapt from the sight of 

his age, 
You were snatched to Olympus, and, mopping your 

oily brown brow, 
Wheeled your cart up the heights where the White 

Ones abide even now, — 
Till, at sight of you, gaily they sped Ganymede as a 



The Push-Cart 

And haled you before them ! Ambrosia and nectar 

I can see them uprisen as one all to pillage your trove. 
Now, superb o'er your overturned cart (having feasted 

their fill) 
They are pelting each other with splendors adown the 

green hill, 
They are chairing you up to a seat between Juno and 





GRIEVE not, Beloved, that nevermore for me 
The wreath of silver shall to gold return, 
Nor on the hills my feet be swift and free, 
Nor in my cheek May's rapturous roses burn. 
Grieve not that I grow weary all too soon, 
That my voice falters like a child's at dark. 
The Body changes as the changing moon, 
Who cares what feathers clothe the meadow lark? 

While the glad heavens to my eager eyes 
Their mysteries of dawn and dusk unfold, 
While just one bird soars singing to the skies, 
While just one daisy bares its heart of gold, 
My Soul, unchanging, shall be strong to dare, 
To live and love, and in God's world to sing. 
I am as ageless as the vibrant air, 
I am as happy-hearted as the Spring. 




MINE was the heart no hand could tame, 
And mine the way no foot had been: 
I wandered, nude of any name, 
In palaces of green, 

Where now and then a cloud would ply 
Its silver shuttle overhead, 
Weaving across the warp of sky 
An iridescent thread. 

Where winds betrayed the trusting flowers 
To take from them all that was sweet — 
Where Day was mother of the hours 
That danced with shining feet. 

And evenings at her darkened door 
She'd call her tired children home 
And each would fold its pinafore 
And answer her, "I come." 

The stars were set to yield me light 
Across the ceiling of my room, 
And showed my arms as swaying white 
As apple boughs in bloom. 



I knew no need for thatch or fire, 
Or purse to sing a song of pence; 
I warmed myself at my desire, 
And paid with innocence. 

While others fingered fork or spoon, 
Laughing, I joyed to feed my soul 
From out a brimming, amber moon 
With honey in its bowl. 

Then, guided by presentiment, 
You turned a corner of the air, 
Your youth a garment sadly rent, 
All dusty with despair. 

And there surprised me, undefiled, 
Defenceless to what fate befell, 
As wild as autumn leaf is wild, 
And secret as a well. 

To heal you of your cynic's pain 
Till, like a pageantry of birds, 
Came daring from your heart again 
Some softly feathered words, — 

The kiss that sealed me woman-grown, 
And yet you dreamed that I might stay 
Ever sequestered and alone, 
Child of the earth alway, — 



To wait your will through storm and wind 
Deep in the vocal forest when 
You left the travelled road behind, 
And lamp-lit haunts of men. 

But I — how can I tell you lest 
Your faith should fail to understand? 
I who was wild now long to nest 
Within your hollow .hand. 

Coveting comfort for my lot, 
The rose-bright hearth and shadowed hall, 
I find, Beloved, my way is not 
The wind's way, after all. 

A ribbon for my hair, a gown 
In which to languishingly dress, 
And four walls of the lighted town 
To hold my happiness. 

And in a cradle, great for pride, 
The babe, the little fairy king, 
That, tending, I should sit beside 
And unto whom I'd sing! 

I guard the truth you dream not of; 
I dwell with flower and star and tree— 
These be my furniture of love, 
The house you give to me. 



Yet ever now by bank or brook, 
I meet you with the anguished fear 
My eyes may show you with a look 
Or tell you with a tear. 




People: An Ashman, a Policeman, a Little Girl in 

Scene: A city alley. The ashman is fastening a nose- 
bag on his horse, which is harnessed to a wagon 
half-filled with ashes. A policeman is watching 

Time: Noon. 

Policeman: What do you feed him? Ashes? 

Ashman: No, I don't! 

I feed him Harps. Come over here, you boob, 

And let him bite your face, he's hungry ! 
Policeman: Aw! 

You're nothing but a Harp yourself, you poor 

Old God- forsaken ashman! Or a wop, 

Or some fool kind of foreigner. 
Ashman: Hell! 

You make me sick, you big fat pie-faced mutt! 

Get out, you spoil my horse's appetite! 
Policeman: I'd hate to be your horse, but then I guess 

I'd rather be your horse than you. (Exit.) 


The Ashman 

A little girl in green appears from behind the 

Little Girl: Hello! 

Ashman: Hello there, kiddol Where did you come 


(Climbs to his seat on the wagon, takes out a tin 

pail, and begins to eat his lunch.) 
Little Girl: I think I'd like some bread and butter, 

Ashman: AH right, old girl, just take a bite of that. 

(Tosses his half loaf down to her.) 
Little Girl: There isn't any butter on it. 
Ashman: No. 

I haven't got no butter. But it's good, 

It's first-rate bread, all right. 
Little Girl: (Tossing back the loaf, from which she 

has taken a bite.) 

Thanks very much! Thanks, Captain Thunder! 
Ashman: Huh? 

You're a queer kid, all right, and hungry, too, 

To eat dry bread (eats some of the bread.) Why 

damn my eyes! 

God's wounds! 

Here's scurvy provender. (Throws the bread 

down) And scurvy mirth ! 

What, Kate! Dear Kate o' the Green, well met, 
well met, 

Slip up and sit beside me, lass ! It's not 

The first time you have been upon this seat. 


The Ashman 

Little Girl: (Climbing up beside him) - 

No Captain, I should know the Royal Mail, 
But when did you take up the coaching trade? 
I had as soon expect to see old Dick 
Throw leg across your Monmouth's gleaming 

Thrust pistols in his belt, and gallop off 
To make his fortune in the light o' the moon, 
As to find you, the Master of the Heath, 
The DeviPs Treasurer, the Velvet Mask, 
The Silver Pistoleer, the Winged Thief, 
Sitting with down-cast Sabbath-keeping eyes, 
Sad lips, and nose all fixed for droning psalms, 
In old Dick's place upon the Royal Mail. 
A proper driver for a coach and four! 

Ashman: Ha' done! God's mercy on us! Let me 
And I will tell you such a waggery 
Will make you laugh and split your pretty sides: 
I stole the Royal Mail ! 

Little Girl: You stole the Mail? 

Ashman: Aye, prigged it, Kate ! Why, here it is, you 
Box, boot and wheels, four horses and a whip, 
And on the door King George's coat of arms. 
All mine, good lass, all mine. But for a price, 
A bitter price, dear Kate. For Monmouth's dead! 

Little Girl: What, Monmouth, best of horses, is he 


The Ashman 

Captain Thunder, never tell me that! 
Why, all the world holds not another horse 
So glossy black, so fleet, so wise, so kind! 

Ashman: Yes, Monmouth's dead. Dick shot him 
through the heart, 
And Monmouth dropped without a whinny. But 

1 paid Dick back. Monmouth is avenged! 
Now, hear me, Kate ! I stopped the Royal Mail 
Last night at twelve o'clock at Carter's Cross, 
Says I, "Stand now ! And let me have the bags — 
That's all I want tonight! Hand over, there!" 
Dick pulls his leaders on their haunches. "Why," 
Says he, "It's Captain Thunder! By my wig! 
Just help yourself!" I prigged his pistol belt 
And rode around to look inside the coach. 

I got the bags. The passengers were three. 
My Lord of Bath and Wells — 

Little Girl: A Bishop, what? 

Ashman: Aye, that he is ; white wig and bands and all. 
Yes, he's a Bishop. And there was his wife, 
(A big fat monster of a wife) and then 
There was a little wizened-looking thing, 
A sort of curate. Well, I looked at them 
And laughed to see them tremble in their shoes. 
"Good e'en, my Lord," says I, and doffed my hat. 
"How do you like the Royal Mail?" Says he: 
"0 good Sir Highwayman, pray let me go, 
Our coach broke down at York, and so we took 
This public carrier, this dreadful thing, 


The Ashman 

This Royal Mail. will you let us pass? 

I must get into Hull by dawn, and sleep, 

For I confirm an hundred souls at noon." 

I listened to him, Kate, and did not see 

The old fox slip a pistol up to Dick. 

But, bang! Hell's fury! Down fell Monmoutfl,. 

And off I stumbled in the ditch ! Well, Kate, 
Dick aimed for me, you see, and got the horse. 
And I got Dick. I got him through the head. 
And then I joined the Bishop once again. 
"Come out, my Lord, and strip!" says I. "What, 

Says he, and let his jaw fall on his chest. 
"Yes, strip!" says I, and pulls his great-coat off: 
"Yes, strip!" says I, and throws his wig away: 
"Yes, strip!" says I, and pulls his breeches off: 
And there he stands and shivers, pink and fat. 
"Now, Madame Bishopess," says I, "pray do 
Poor Captain Thunder so much courtesy 
As to ride by him on the way to town." 
She screamed and fought, I took her in my arms 
And heaved her up into the seat. "Now strip!" 
I shouted to the curate. "Yes," says he, 
"I'll strip," and strip he did. "Inside!" says I; 
They stumbled headlong in, I cracked my whip 
And, whoop! the Mail went rumbling on to Hull! 
Well, just at dawn we passed the Southern Gate; 
We galloped down the street and made a halt 
Beside the Close. "Here's the Cathedral, dame!" 


The Ashmarii 

Says I, and helped the lady to the ground. 

"Unbar the door, and help his Lordship out 

And don't forget the curate!" How I laughed 

To see the Bishop and the curate run 

Stark naked, screaming, to the Chapter House I 

Well, I was off at once and out of Hull 

And never stopped to breathe the nags till now. 

Little Girl: But, Captain Thunder! Captain! Are 
you mad? 
They'll have the country after you! Be quick! 
You can't make cover in a coach and four 
As on a horse! 

Ashman: Nay, Kate, rest easy now. 

Red Will is out, and Davy Doublesword, 
And Hieland Jock, and Dan the Drum and Ned, 
And twenty gallant gentlemen beside. 
And they have sworn to keep the roadway clear 
By setting all the lobsters such a chase 
Will scatter them till night. And Ned will blow 
His bugle when the way is safe. Then, whoop ! 
I'll rattle off again and fill the coach 
With gentlemen of fortune, comrades true, 
And own the road from here to London town. 
(A horn is heard and a cry of "Fish, fish, fish, fine 
fresh fish!" 

Little Girl: Down, Captain, loose the horses! There's 
the call! 
(The Ashman gets down, takes off the horse's 
nosebag and unhitches the horse from the post.) 


The Ashman 

Ashman: (Getting back on his seat) 

Now Kate, we'll gallop off to Arcady. 
Policeman: (Suddenly entering) 

Hello, there, Ashes, who you talking to? 
Ashman: Kate of the Greenwood. 
Policeman: Kate? You poor old boobl 

You're crazy in the head. There's no one there! 
Ashman: (Driving off) 

Make way there, constable. (Cracks his whip 
and sings.) 

Come all ye jolly rovers 

As wants to hear a tale 
Will make your hearts as merry 

As a bellyful of ale. 
I'll sing of Captain Thunder, 

And his dashing slashing way, 
How he kissed the queen and he cuffed the king, 
And threw the crown away ! 

Policeman: Well, I'll be damned! 




IN the long spring evening's twilight, when the sun is 
setting low, 

And the smoke from all the engines flushes up, a rosy- 

Then I come up to the bridge-head, watch the lights 
and net- work rails, 

Think of when I rode the freighters — engines spouting 
steam like whales, 

D. L. W., Jersey Central, old Rock Island, Fere Mar- 

Reading coal cars down from Scranton, piled with 
anthracite like jet; 

N. and W., the Great Northern, Lehigh Valley, 
B. and 0., 

Like a giant earth-worm twisting, slowly round the 
curve they flow, 

Caravans of freight move westward, bearing eastern 
goods away. 

To come back with hogs and cattle, bales of sweet 
Kentucky hay, 

Brakemen walk along the roof-tops lingering for a 
moment's chat; 

There an engineer, while smoking, long and eloquently- 


The Freight Yards 

Wandering life and care-free rovers, seasoned in 

adventure bold, 
In the old caboose at night time many a thrilling tale is 

But on duty in the winter, when there's hail, and ice, 

and snow, 
And the rails and roofs are ice-cased, and you slip 

each step you go, 
Or the melting, boiling summer, when the blisters lump 

the paint, 
And the fierce sun strikes directly, and you feel you're 

like to faint, 
That's the time you curse the life out, striking for a 

rise in pay, 
Say a dog has better living, but you can't quite get 

For the rugged freedom holds you, spite of freezing 

cold and sweat, 
And the grating, grinding thunder of the freights you 

can't forget. 
L. and N., D. L. and W., Erie, Reading, P. R. R., 
Riding on your sliding roof-tops, that's where joy and 

freedom are! 




I WOULD not die in April, 
When grass and violet wake, 
Nor have your spade disturb them 
For my sake; 

I prize too much the comfort 

Of all the pallid shoots 
To grub beneath their confident 

Slim roots. 

Oh, rather in the snowtime — 

That from the newly dead 
The grass may forage boldly 

In my head, 

And from my heart the violet 

May drink, and flame a blue 
Sweet message from the heart of God 

To you. 




I am afraid to go into the woods, 

I fear the trees and their mad, green moods. 

I fear the breezes that pull at my sleeves, 
The creeping arbutus beneath the leaves, 

And the brook that mocks me with wild, wet words; 
I stumble and fall at the voice of birds. 

Think of the terror of those swift showers, 
Think of the meadows of fierce-eyed flowers! 

And the little things with sudden wings, 
TThat buzz about me and dash and dart, 
And the lilac waiting to break my heart! 

Winter, hide me in your kind snow, 
I am a coward, a coward, I know ! 




HE will not see the tender spring again 
Rise from the earth with strange, perennial grace, 
He will not see again the May-nights face 
Speak of eternal things to transient men, 
He will not stir, with deep upliftings, when 
June laughs for freedom from our time and place, — 
No, though her winds all day blow out of space, 
He will not quicken in his body then. 

And be his spirit timeless like a star — 
A burning life fate can no more remand — 
And be it rapturous like the silent flowers, 
And a long loveliness in springs afar, — 
Yet will he never feel in that new land 
The immortality of mortal hours. 




I AM not healed of grief; not I, 
Nor shall be till spring boughs forget 
Their poignancies down the young sky, 
In dusks all violet. 

Not I. Not till the year has found 
Some other fashion for the rain 

In old thin autumn fields ; its sound 
Against a lonely pane. 

Not till the worn, dear, usual things — 
Street, house, or even a chair, a jar — 

Rid them of all rememberings, 
Grow strange, and cold, and far. 

Who plucks my cowslips in the sun? 

Whose step fleets by the withered tree? 
Whose shadowy, golden laughters run 

Betwixt my books and me? 

They have been gone a thousand years. 

I grant it. Are the deeps fallen dry? 
Wears grief a look not that of tears? — 

Not I, indeed, not I. 



IN the dust with words they laid him, 
Told the winds 'twas God that made him; 
Him whose life was clock-told hours 
Friends consigned to future flowers; 
Him whose life was mainly eating 
Friends committed to God's greeting, 
Sent him to immortal rest 
In a mortal, braided vest, 
Gave the daily press his story, 
Snuffed his wick with oratory. 
Death, they said, is a swift changing 
To a guise of God's arranging. 
Life, they sighed, is something broken, 
Death the only holy token. 

God was present, and half heard 

But was busy with a bird 

And He missed the declamation, 

Missed the body's name and station, 

So will very likely leave him 

To the worms, and worms will weave him 

No white mask to make him holy, 

But oblivion, coming slowly 



With this legend to expound it — 
"There was life — he never found it — 
"He is dead — he'll never know; 
"Let the grasses tell him so." 




IN our mountain shanty 
I cook and wash and sweep, 
I tip to see our baby 

And find that she's asleep ! 

The song that's in my heart 

Leaps singing to my lips! 

My feet go nimbly dancing 

On their many little trips ! 

The fragrance of the woodbine 

And the sweetness of the rose 
Float in from the garden 

To tantalize my nose! 
Oh, you are young and I am, too, 

And life to us is play, — 
For you love me and I love you 

And it's a day in May! 




THE Pan-thrilled saplings swayed in sportive bliss, 
Longing to change their roots to flying feet, 
And, where the buds were pouting for Pan's kiss, 
The high lark sprinkled music, dewy sweet. 

I wandered down a golden lane of light, 

And found a dell, unsoiled by man, untrod, 
And, with the daffodil for acolyte, 

bared my soul to all the woods, and God. , 




1HAVE no beauty that is all my own, 
No special loveliness carved out of me, 
No glowing images wrought perfectly, 
Splendour of flesh or delicacy of bone. 
I am a pool, wherein you shall be shown 
How wonderful and starlike you can be — 
I am a mirror so that you may see 
Yourself most intimately and alone. 
When you lean to me and a dear, swift grace 
Sways in my body, and my lips and eyes 
Grow suddenly and exquisitely calm — 
Oh tremble and look deep into my face 
And see your own there, marvel and grow wise, 
Touch me and cry, "How beautiful I am!" 




BREAK into bloom, my hidden thought! 
The apple trees are dressed for May, 
And shall their beauty call you not, 
Nor sweetness of this day? 

For there is one to whom belong 

Your coral buds of fancy dim, 
And every bloom of full-blown song 

You can put on for him. 

Mass all your boughs with fragrant snow, 
That when he sees you blossoming 

On this his birthday, he will know 
You bless him for your Spring. 

Be opulent for him and sweet: 

Thank him as do the grateful trees. 

Flutter your flowers to his feet 
Like little melodies ! 




THE day you went my world was done. 
There came no comfort from the sun 
Nor from the love of life that lurks 
In sunlight, nor from all the works 
Of faith and old philosophy, — 
Till one young rose leaned down to me 
And shot my brooding like a wing; 
The most foolhardy, gallant thing 
In all this rocking world, conceived 
Of morning dew . . . and I believed! 
It bannered upward from the sod 
The visible defence of God. 




I ONLY know 
Last night he came to me, 
Just as he used to come before the days when war and 

Had passed between us. 
Close by my side he stood, 
His presence filled the fair nights solitude. 
Blue moonlight fell about him like a cloak, 
And there was moonlight on a bed of hyacinths 
Sweet with the breath of love and youth and spring. 

I felt his touch ; 

His eyes looked into mine; 

I heard his voice speaking to me 

The words he spoke before he went away; 

. . . "Beloved, do not weep. There is no need to 

My love will bring me back for many nights like this — 
When there is moonlight on the hyacinths, 
And the world is full of love and youth and spring." 

And I wept not. 

His kisses fell upon my eyes 

Like dew, and closed them. 


A Revenant 

Then slow and stealthily a mist came creeping up, 
So that in sudden fear I reached to him, I called him — 
But he had slipped away. 

Alone — I was alone. 

But oh, I know that he will come 

Again, and yet again — and war and death 

Have never passed between us; 

And when he comes, though snows fall, there shall be 

Moonlight and hyacinths, 

And love, and youth, and spring! 




Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom, 

My sleepy solitude, op quiet wing, 
Your voice unheard? 

Why do you linger there upon the tree 

And still forbear to sing, 
As if your message were a silent doom? 

torch of fire, 

Enkindled at the flame of heart's desire 
In some enchanted land! winged rose, 

Blown from the living garden of delight! 
flash of joy, 

Deliriously bright, 
Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy 
Or maid who thrills and glows! 
dream incarnadine 

Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was minel 

Why sent to torture me? 

You cut the shadow like an open wound; 

The forest bleeds with your intensity, 
In a mysterious anguish, unrelieved by sound. 

And when you flit away, 

Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day, 
And, shivering, I shall gaze 


Down the dim alley, empty of your blaze, 
The darkness will be darker than of yore, 
The silence stiller than it was before. 

Then faded peace will brood, 
A moment stirred, 

In the transfigured wood, 
O Scarlet Bird! 


»•• , , . ..... »>j » » > . 



MY garden is a pleasant place 
Of sun glory and leaf grace. 
There is an ancient cherry tree 
Where yellow warblers sing to me, 
And an old grape arbor where 
A robin builds her nest, and there 
Above the lima beans and peas 
She croons her little melodies, 
Her blue eggs hidden in the green 
Fastness of that leafy screen. 
Here are striped zinnias that bees 
Fly far to visit ; and sweet peas, 
Like little butterflies newborn, 
And over by the tasseled corn 
Are sunflowers and hollyhocks, 
And pink and yellow four-o'clocks. 
Here are humming birds that come 
To seek the tall delphinium, 
Songless bird and scentless flower 
Communing in a golden hour. 

There is no blue like the blue cup 
The tall delphinium holds up, 
Not sky, nor distant hill, nor sea, 
Sapphire, nor lapis-lazuli. 

101 V 

tel;**i ; 

My Garden Is a Pleasant Place 

My lilac trees are old and tall, 
I cannot reach their bloom at all. 
They send their perfume over trees 
And roofs and streets, to find the bees. 

I wish some power would touch my ear 

With magic touch, and make me hear 

What all the blossoms say, and so 

I might know what the winged things know. 

I'd hear the sunflower's mellow pipe, 

"Goldfinch, goldfinch, my seeds are ripe!" 

I'd hear the pale wisteria sing, 

"Moon moth, moon moth, Ym blossoming!" 

I'd hear the evening primrose cry, 
"0, firefly! Come, firefly!" 
And I would learn the jeweled word 
The ruby-throated hummingbird 
Drops into cups of larkspur blue, 
And I would sing them all for you! 

My garden is a pleasant place 
Of moon glory and wind grace. 
0, friend, wherever you may be, 
Will you not come to visit me? 
Over fields and streams and hills, 
Pll pipe like yellow daffodils, 
And every little wind that blows 
Shall take my message as it goes. 


My Garden Is a Pleasant Place 

A heart may travel very far 

To come where its desires are. 

0, may some power touch your ear, 

And grant me grace, and make you hear I 





00 me not tonight, my lover; 
Not tonight — for my soul is not here! 

My soul is a moth 

And the dusk is my lover. 

In the hush of the shadows 

We tryst, and we listen — 

Breathless — we listen 

To the far-blown secrets of night. 

O fragrant-blown secrets! 

They are hid in the petals of moonflowers, 

In the low, singing rhythm that stirs through the 

In soft, elfin laughter, 
And in the whirring of bats' wings. 

Little star-birds are splashing 

Their silver feathers in puddles of dew. 

There is a gold bowl in heaven, 
Half-tipped, and spilling its honey 
In long, luscious streaks upon the black grass; 
And we sip 


My Soul Is a Moth 

Until we are steeped in it, 

Until we are faint with it, 

With the beauty and sweet of it — 

bear with the heavy- winged vagrant 
My moth-soul, my lover; 
Woo me not tonight, 
Not tonight 1 






IT was April when you came 
The first time to me, 
And my first look in your eyes 
Was like my first look at the sea. 

We have been together 

Four Aprils now, 
Watching for the green 

On the swaying willow-bough; 

Yet whenever I turn 

To your gray eyes over me, 

It is as though I looked 

For the first time at the sea. 


N the silver light after a storm, 

Under dripping boughs of bright new green, 
I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks, 
More proud and high hearted than if I were a queen. 


Three Songs For E. 

What have I to fear in life or death, 

Who have known three things : the kiss in the night, 
The white flying joy when a song is born, 

And meadowlarks whistling in silver light. 


I MADE you many and many a song, 
Yet never one told all you are — 
It was as though a net of words 
Were flung to catch a star; 

It was as though I curved my hand 
And dipped sea-water eagerly, 
Only to find it lost the blue 
Deep splendor of the sea. 




THIS stillness made of azure 
And veiled with lavender, 
Must be my daylight garden 
Where all the pigeons were! 

Blue dusk upon my eyelids, 
Your elfin whims disclose 

The moth that is a flower, 
The wings that are a rose. 

Make haste, exhale your sweetness 
For you must vanish soon: 

The garden will forget you 
At rising of the moon. 

A glory dawns predestined 

Of old to banish you 
And bind you fast with rainbows 

In dungeons of the dew. 

And who will then remember 
Your cool and gossamer art? 

Ah, never moon may exile 
Your beauty from my heart! 





GOD is in this gray, pensive rain; 
It is his mystic inmost mood; 
He has some old sweet thought to brood, 
Too curious for joy or pain. 
Keep your heart hushed! You'll get no gain 

Of anxious prayers and strivings crude 
While God is busy with the rain . . . 

Some secrecy, occult, arcane,' 
Holds its swift-drifting multitude; 
It hurries through the quietude 

Whispering so silverly . . . It's plain 

To me that God is in the rain, 
And in his inmost mystic mood. 


YON wizard Sun-god dreamed of old 
This glowing sage-brush solitude 
All silver-green and turkis-hued, 
With lilac shadows manifold. 


Rondels of Lomaland 

These ragged blue-gums, sun-ensouled, 
On some antique enchantment brood; 

Yon wizard Sun-god dreamed of old 
This glowing sage-brush solitude. 

There's nothing human to behold, 
Nor aught mortality-imbued; 
God in his grand alchemic mood 
Melts earth to dim, aerial gold — 
Yon wizard God that dreamed of old 
This glowing sage-brush solitude. 


I COULD well spend a thousand years 
Just worshipping and praising you, 
That wonder have, and honeydew, 
For our crass passion, speech and tears. 
Your meditations soar in spheres 

No saint of ours, nor poet, knew; 
Sweet, I could spend ten thousand years 
Just worshipping and praising you! 

For you, I guess, have eyes and ears 
For all God broods beyond the blue ; 
And what the plumed archangels do 

You dream, and have no hopes nor fears. 

Oh that I had a million years, 
Sweet, to give all to praise of you! 


Rondels of Lomaland 


WHEN the dove-wings of Evening dimmed 
The quiet world to blue and grey, 
Between the tree-trunks, far away 
On that soft gloom a marvel gleamed: 
The pearl and turkis waters rimmed 
With lights vermeil and golden gay 
Where the dove-wings of Evening dimmed 
The quiet world to blue and grey. 

Twas like some Feast of Lanterns, limned 
By wizard painters in Cathay, 
Some palace in the Realms of Fay 
That Sinbad or Aladdin dreamed 
When the dove wings of Evening dimmed 
The quiet world to blue and grey. 


PEARL-PALE from some dim Paradise 
She wanders speechless, sibylline, 
By ghostly coastlines half unseen — 
Dim shores, wan seas, and grey, pale skies. 
Tiptoe, and hushed with mysteries 

Unwhisperable — aloof of mien, 
Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise 
She wanders, speechless, sibylline. 

Grey Druidess of the dreaming eyes, 
You give no gold for Summer's green, 
Nor deck the trees in passing sheen 


Rondels of Lomaland 

Of gilt and carmined heraldries; 
Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise 
You wander speechless, sibylline! 


THEY had some secret news to tell, 
The plume-blooms of the pampas-grass, 
They held me, that I might not pass, 
With some sun-sweet, scarce-whispered spell. 
About some faery miracle, 
Or the hidden wealth the Gods amass, 
They surely had strange news to tell . . . 

But I was moidered with the swell 
Of common thought; — had not, alas I 
Fasted of words since Martinmas 

As they had ; and I heard not well 

The unusual news they had to tell, 

Those plumes and blooms of pampas-grass. 




SO calm, so still, with eyes so far away 
She sits unheedful of the clanging throng, 
Only her slender, white 7 gloved fingers play 
About the lilac in her lap; old song, 
Old unremembered wisps of music float 
To kiss the clinging fragrance at her lips. 
And there's a sudden catching in her throat 
For the sight of channel water as it slips 
Up a dear shore, for clambering roads that wind 
In dusty indolence from hill to hill, 
The hedgerow all in blossom, ditches blind 
With gold a million buttercups let spill. 
Full of the wonder spring has brought to pass 
Once more she runs barefooted thru the grass. 




I WANT to dance! 
When the sun catches the aspen leaves 
They dance; 

When it flecks the grasses and mottles the streams 
They dance; 

When the dark storm bends the black branches 
And the wind whips up the waves 
They dance; 

The birds swing on the elm twig, 
The sap races in the tree, 
Horses run in the pasture, 
Mist fairies glide to and fro in the valley, 
Cloud children play in heaven, 
The stars sing and dance, 
And I want to dance! 

I can be rain drops. 

I can be leaves and bending grasses, 

Gold mottled streams and running horses, 

Racing sap and the hidden heart of flowers. 

I can be fire light and moon light, 

A child of the night mist and a sister of the stars. 

All the world sings and dances, 

And I am a child of all the world. I want to sing, 

and — 
I want to dance! 




I SHALL dance in the forest, 
And all my dancing shall be for you — 
For you, who are very far away. 

The wind shall make 

A tune for my feet. 
It must be low; 

It must be sweet — 
For it is for you, 

Sweeter, lower; 

A little slower — 

Now I raise my foot and knee; 
And spurn the ground; and leap; and see 
The sky like a scarf to strain to, touch, 
Feel, and be part of, and claim, and clutch, 
And wave, in my dance ! 

Wind ! Louder ! Faster ! 

Be confusion! Be disaster! 
Now I crouch, and now I run, 
And dance, and dance, and catch the sun 
In one outstretched arm, and fling it high 
Back, against the wall of the air! 
Now it is caught in the scarf I wear! 
Now it is caught in my scarf, the sky, 


Forest Dance 

Like a jewelled pin, like a yellow stone! 

It, too, is my own! 

Now I shall trail my scarf, and tread 

A stately march, and droop my head, 

Mimicking flowers, and they will all 

Tremble with anger. I shall let fall 

My scarf, and now I shall dance the word 

That is in my heart when I think of you. 

(It is a burning word, and holy. 

It is like a wakened bird.) 

Wild, and mad is my dance! I turn 

Swaying, trembling, like a tree, 

Like a tree that starts to burn 

In a forest, that feels the fire creep slowly 

Up its branches, into its bark, 

And sees its own smoke, like a dark 

Cloud that shuts it out from the known 

Trees with whom it has leaved and grown. 

Caught in flames, it shivers to see 

Itself a flame, that was a tree! 

So I dance! Wind, sing, sing! 
Louder, wilder, faster fling 
Down your music! I drop the sky 
Beneath my feet, and I tread it under. 
I hold my cupped hands, full of wonder, 
High, high— 

I dance in the forest, 

And all my dancing is for you, 
Who are far away, and will never know. 




DONAL o' Dreams has no bed for his sleeping, 
No gold in his keeping, no glove for his hand ; 
But the birds understand his wild music's leaping 

And the children follow his fiddle's command. 
He is sib to the winds and the wandering streams 
And the stars are the kinsfolk of Donal o' Dreams. 

When day goes over the edge of the dark 
The grandsires hark to his songs of old, 

And on dreams of gold do the lads embark 
While the lassies beckon him in from the cold 

But he's heeding no hearth where the firelight gleams 
For the Voices are calling to Donal o' Dreams. 

Playing o' nights by the fairy rings 

The brown fiddle swings a dancing song; 

Nor right nor wrong in the music sings — 
(0, the light feet whirling the leaves along!) 

Soulless as moon's light and soft as her beams 
Sounds the fairy music of Donal o' Dreams. 

Gold cannot stay him nor maidens' sigh — 
Stars fleck the skies or the fiddle's croon 


The Fiddler 

Softens the noon on his way that lies 

To the East of the Sun and the West of the Moon — 
Always in search of that Land he is roaming 

And he follows its Gleam from the dawn to the 




I AM a dancer. When I pray 
I do not gather thoughts with clumsy thread 
Into poor phrases. Birds all have a way 
Of singing home the truth that they are birds, 
And so my loving litany is said 
Without the aid of words. 
I am a dancer. Under me 
The floor dreams lapis lazuli, 
With inlaid gems of every hue — 
Mother o' pearl I tread like dew, 
While at the window of her frame 
Our Lady, of the hallowed name, 
Leans on the sill. Gray saints glare down, 
Too long by godliness entranced, 
With piety of painted frown, 
Who never danced . . . 
But Oh, Our Lady's quaint, arrested look 
Remembers when she danced with bird and brook, 
Of wind and flowers and innocence a part, 
Before the rose of Jesus kissed her heart 
And men heaped heavy prayers upon her breast. 
She watches me with gladness half confessed 
Who dare to gesture homage with my feet, 
Or twinkle lacey steps of joy 


The Dancer In the Shrine 

To entertain the Holy Boy; 
Who, laughing, pirouette and pass, 
Translated by the colored glass, 
To meanings infinitely sweet. 
And though it is not much, I know, 
To fan the incense to and fro 
With skirt as flighty as a wing, 
It seems Our Lady understands 
The method of my worshipping, 
The hymns I'm lifting in my hands 
I am a dancer . . . 




FROM among deep mosses 
That cushion the twisted roots of the wood, 
It springs — the ragged weep! with burning blossoms. 
And, if you look for it, the cloistered dimness 
Under pine boughs, thick-thatched eternally, 
Is pierced in myriads of places 
By these tiny sparks, these flashes of cool flame. 

If there were a God of Fire, 

His home would be the forest. 

In the most secret chamber of the oak woods, 

To which the light of true day never penetrates, 

He would lurk all year, and growl and grumble to 

In August, when hares lie panting in their burroughs, 
How terrible he would stalk abroad; 
Touching the dry tree-trunks with his fingers! 
How he would rush, roaring through the woods, 
Sweeping his red banners among crackling branches ! 

Then, if he but glanced down 

And saw the beautiful mockery at his feet, 

Mimicking him; 

The fire-weed, lighting the forest floor with loveliness 


Fire-Weed In the Forest 

As he was lighting its vaulted roof with horror- 
Would he not shrink back? 
Would he not feel within himself how mean 
And how absurd a thing is fear fulness; 
How divine is beauty; 
What an all-mighty revealer of truth 
Laughter can be? 




OH, it is good to camp with the spirit, 
Oh, it is jaunty to walk with the mind, 
When the soul sees all the future to share it 
Knowing the road that stretches behind. 

Courage, my comrade, the devil is dying! 

Here's the bright sun and a cloud scudding free; 
The touch of your hand is too near for denying, 

And laughter's a tavern sufficient for me. 

Hang your old hat on the smoke-mellowed rafter, 
Strike an old song on your crazy guitar; 

Hey, hustle, old lady, it's heaven we're after — 
God, but I'm glad we can be what we are! 


HA! HA! 


I THOUGHT Joy went by me, 
I thought Love was dead — 
They did it but to try me; 
Laughingly Love said: 

"We are crazy fellows, 
All the roads we roam; 

When you come to find us, 
We are not at home. 

"Then some winter evening 

We will straggle in, 
Set the rafters rocking 

With the old familiar din. 

"Stay not hands to hold us 
When we're bowsed and fed, 

We are crazy fellows," . . . 
Laughingly Love said. 




HE came with roses in his mouth, 
And kindling rubies in each vein, 
Like perfume of the scented south 

Through flying arrows of the rain, 
And on his goat-heels sat and played 
Till we were charmed yet half afraid! 

And dogs and sheep and gentle things 
Crept near, and very shy and sweet 

A butterfly, on painted wings, 
Alighted softly at his feet, 

And hearing him the great god Pan 
Grew feeble as an old, old man. 

His antics were so proud and free, 
His smiles so wilful and so rare 

He should have worn eternity 
As jewels in his grape-dark hair; 

And yet the burden of his song 
Was that he could not linger long! 

The clouds, a white-robed pilgrim lot, 
Came gathering at once they saw 


Joy 0' Living 

Our little tangled human knot 
Attentive to his oaten straw, 

Till all on tiptoe they withdrew 
And let the moon adventure through. 

Through evening's iridescent mist 
He saw me once and followed far ; 

I would that he had caught and kissed 
And set me like a burning star 

To cool in some blue distant place 
Till death or dawn should find my face. 





Wrapt in a shadowed harmony 
Of leaves and buds and crinkly moss, 
Above me tangled green will toss, 
And all about, 
Unfurled for me, 
Uncurled for me, 
The fern's unhurried rout: 
But one more month — so soon — 
Wait for me, June, my J[une! 

The birds, live cups of singing wine, 

On their tall stems of larch and pine, 

Will brim for me the glad day long 

The comfort of their bubbling song; 

The nightingale 

Will trill for me, 

Will spill for me, 

Her shy, exultant grail: 

But one more month — so soon — 

Wait for me, June, my June ! 

Bring me your revelling fields and woods, 
Your hills and lakes of solemn moods, 



Gather the stars, fresh-plucked and sweet, 

Scatter them wide where we two meet! 

I bring to you, 

Still near to me 

Still dear to me, 

My ancient grief, still new: 

But one more month — so soon — 

Wait for me, June, my June! 




MY old gardener leans on his hoe, 
Tells me the way that green things grow; 
"Goin' to church? Why no. 
All nature's church enough for me!" 

Says he. 

"Preachin' o' flower and choir o' bird, 

An' the wind passin' the plate — 

Sweetest service that ever / heard, 

That's straight! * 

Eternal Rest? 

What for, friend? 

Gimme a swarm o' bees to tend, 

A honey-makin', world without end, 

That's what I'd like the best! 

(Scoop 'em right up an' find the queen, 

They'd not sting me — the bees ain't mean!) 

"Heaven's all right! 
But still I guess I'll kinder miss 
The Lady Lunar moth at night 
And the White Wanderer butterfly 
Crawlin' out of its crysalis ! 


The Naturalist On a June Sunday 

I want my heaven human too, 

'Twixt me an' you — 

Why I'd jus' love to see 

A chipmunk hop up to the Lord 

An' eat right out o' His dread Hand 

Same as it does to me! 

Eternity — eternity — 

Don't it sound grand? 

But say 

What's the matter with today? 

Just step into the wood an' take a look! 

Ain't that a page o' teachin' from the Holy Book? 

'He that hath eyes to see 

An' ears to hear' — 

That's good enough for me! 

I guess God's pretty near, 

He'll understand, I know, 

Why I ain't in no hurry to let June go!" 

My old gardener turns to his hoe, 
Helping the green things how to grow, 
"The Misses can go to church for me! 
Amen!" says he. 




COME out to our house any week-end in June, 
When dandelions riot in the grass: 
And drink the yellow floods of afternoon, 

Poured from a sky of blue and quivering glass. 
Go through the arbor where the ramblers mass 

In crimson flame against white lattices : 
Open the easy swinging gate, and pass 

Beneath the birch, between the maple trees 
With tops a-tremble in the south-west breeze: 

Follow along the curving gravel walk 
Up to the terrace top, where, as you please, 

Tobacco, high adventure, casual talk, 
And journey's end await, if you are one 

Who would live much and quietly, in the sun. 


The easy swinging gate you entered through 
. Has worn and rusty hinges ; but they creak 
A little song of welcoming to you, 

Sung in the only language they can speak. 
They know the gladdest day of all the week, 

And count upon it, even as you and I. 


Week-End Sonnets 

Their Monday morning voice is but a squeak; 

Somehow they cannot learn to sing "Goodbye." 
You may not think such knowingness can lie 

In rusted hinges of an arbor gate ; 
But everywhere in earth and air and sky 

Alluring undiscovered wonders wait, 
And high adventure lurks; and splendor clings 

In trivial and unsought-after things. 


On Sunday morning you may go to church 

In any way you please, or not at all. 
There is a stately one beneath our birch, 

A lowlier one out by the garden wall: 
Methodist, Catholic, Episcopal, 

Are all within an easy morning's stroll; 
But if these venerable creeds appal, 

A garden spade may benefit your soul; 
Or some eternal verity unroll 

As you spread paint upon the kitchen screens, 
Or fix fresh cut nasturtiums in a bowl, 

Or hold communion with the lima beans. 
Or you may put your clean white flannels on 

And meet it as you ramble through the lawn. 


But do not make a desperate search for God 

Lest you offend his quiet dignity. 
The week-end is no time to pant or plod 

The rock-strewn roads of any Calvary. 


Week-End Sonnets 

It is a time to live in the sun, and see 

Your favorite god by glimpses, everywhere. 
I find him lurking quite persistently 

In our young daughter's laugh, and in her hair; 
And if the baby smiles, he lingers there: 

But when the baby cries, he understands 
And straightway slips without offense or care 

Into my wife's brown eyes and her white hands; 
And many a moonlight night in fall he comes 

To dance among the Ted chrysanthemums. 




THE days that I'd go fishing, 
I would wake before the dawn, 
The moon a little lip of gold 
Above a silver lawn, 
Where in a velvet pool of trees, 
A gray mist hung, unstirred by breeze, 
Or any sound, so patiently 
The world bore night, it seemed to me. 

The house was silent to my feet, 
Beneath a tiptoe tread, 
And I could see behind each door, 
Calm in a white-paned bed, 
An aunt, with high patrician nose, 
An uncle carmined ; there arose 
A smell of matting on the air, 
Sober and cooling everywhere. 

Straight through the kitchen past the cat 

Who blinked with eyes of gold, 

And yawned with infinite contempt, 

For sleep is ever new, and old 

Is fishing; on the Nile, 

Once with mysterious feline guile, 

Were caught bright fins of other days, 

In temple-shadowed moonlit bays. 



The cat, the stove, an opened door 

Upon a miracle of sun! 

for the dew upon the grass! 

for the feet that dance and run! 
And in the maples' tiptop spires 

A bursting song of passionate choirs! 

1 think that morning's finest joys 
Are saved for little fishing boys. 

Where trout lie there are white, white stones, 

With running water over; 

And half the air is made of mint, 

And half is made of clover; 

And slow clouds come and go and sail, 

Like giant fish with lazy tail. 

A stream runs out a fine spun song, 
From shadowy pools to laughter; 
A wood-song with a chorus in, 
And a lilt, and a chuckle after; 
For little waves with sunlight in 
Are like plucked notes of a violin; 
While through the mist of melodies, 
Is ever the motif of the breeze. 

Some find bird caroling sweet at dawn, 

And some, more sweet at noon, 

But fishing boys like dusk, I think, 

For there's a hush, that soon, 

When evening sends you homeward bound, 



Turns every field to tremulous sound, 
Where thrush and owl and meadow lark 
Chant to the coming of the dark. 

The nights when I'd been fishing, 
Were always very still, 
Save for a rustling of the leaves, 
A distant whip-poor-will; 
And, in a sky of velvet-blue, 
The stars were golden fishes, too; 
Swam slowly, swam into a dream 
Of white stones and a running stream. 




A KEEN wind, a live wind, 
A blithe wind, gallant, free, 
Blows laughing, singing, sailing in, 
Careening in, from sea. 

The calm wood, the staid field, 
The uneventful vale — 
What know they of blue magic or 
Slant sunlight on a sail? 

And yet when the night wind 
Sets seaward sweet with bloom, 
There's one who sees red clover fields 
Against the landward gloom 1 




GIVE me. a land where the fog comes manifold and 
From over the black wash of the waves and the sheer 

white spray; 
For in a land where the fog lies my mother bore her 

Out of the blown wet veil of the fog first I wept and 

Give me a land where the fog comes, for when I burn 

with pain, 
As to a mother I would go home into the fog again; 
I would leave the garish fire of the sun and go where 

skies are blind, 
For cool to cover me is the fog, cool and very kind, 
Large as her love to hold and enfold me, quiet as death 

— or sleep — 
It may be that where the fog lies I can smile again, or 





THE sea is like a little child at play, 
Its bright hair sparkling in the sunshine; 
Us tousled curls dancing in the breeze 
Spread out in undulent reaches 
Across the shoulders of the bar. 
The sea is like a solitary child 
Murmuring and singing to itself in play, 
Skipping across into shallow inlets, 
Catching and tossing a vagrant sea-flower, 
Or pouring a thousand little shells 
Idly from hand to hand. 




THE sea lies throbbing on the shore. 
The sea-gulls cry against the west. 
Those who think least are happiest. 

The sea-weeds blindly twist and turn, 
The long waves shudder on the reef. 
Power for joy is power for grief. 

A mist comes groping from afar, 
It cannot press the sea to rest. 
Those who think least are happiest 




WILLIE'S wife is very kind, Willie's equal you 
can't find 
And they've brought me here to anchor for as long as 

I shall stay; 
The children fairly dote on my little whittled boats 
And it's "Granpop, Granpop" all the live-long day. 

But it's that still o' nights that I cant feel to rights, 
Nothing but the crickets or the foot steps passing by. 
I strain my old deaf ears 'till it almost seems they 

The murmur of the waters or the sea-gulls' squeaky 


The white road stretches down, farm by farm an' town 

by town, 
If I could follow far enough I know I'd reach the sea — 
Oh, to hear the sea birds cry an' to watch the ships 

sail by, 
Jus' to sniff the old salt smell how happy I would be! 

Jus' to hear the Captains talk, from Point Jude to 

Kitty hawk 
Jus' to hear the crashin' roar of the breakers runnin 

free — 



My eyes are sick to sight the old Fire Island Light 
Where she lifts across the waters for to warn the ships 
at sea. 

Soon they'll lay me down to rest with my hands 

crossed on my breast 
Scarred by ropes and marked with anchors as a sailor 

man's should be. 
But my soul, she'll never bide — at the turnin' of the 

She'll be pulling at her anchor and a runnin' out to sea ! 




TO Bombay and Capetown, and ports of a hundred 
To Mombassa, Panama, and Aden on the sands, 
Red with rust and green with mold, caked with sodden 

The reeling, rolling tankers sail Southward from the 

Southward past the Cornish cliffs, cleft red against the 

They snort and stagger onward with sailors in their 

To the spell of rolling seas and the blue of a windy 

While the smoke lies brown to leeward as the liners 

scurry by. 

Thrashing through a tearing gale with a dark green sea 

While the funnel clews sing madly against a sky of 

Foam choked and wave choked, scarred by battered 

The long brown decks are whirling seas where silver 

combers rear. 


The Tankers 

Swinging down a brilliant gulf with shores of brown 

and gray 
The snub-nosed, well-decked tankers slowly steam 

their way 
Up the straits to the Pirate Coast and dim harbors of 

the South 
Where they lie like long red patches by a jungle river's 





HERE is the record of their splendid days: 
The curving prow, the tall and stately mast, 
And all the width and wonder of their ways 

Reduced to little printed words, at last. 
The Helen Dover docks, the Mary Ann 

Departs for Ceylon and the Eastern trade: 
Arrived: The Jacque, with cargoes from Japan, 
And Richard Kidd, a tramp, and Silver Maid. 

The narrow print is wide enough for these: 
But here: "Reported Missing" ... the type fails, 

The column breaks for white, disastrous seas, 
The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sails 

Flagging farewells to sky and wind and shore, 
Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more. 




OH the exquisite poems in sound, 
The swash of the bow wave, 

The boil of the wake, 

The rhythmic sound pulse of the hidden screw, 

The white swash of a clumsy-topped wave that trips 
and falls, 

(Can you hear white swashes and white sounds? 

I can hear white sounds — 

They are always soft — 

They are quiet sounds, 

Just soothing the silence by their inconspicuous 
swishes, rustles, murmurs, 

Like the breaking of bubbles in cloudy foam, 

And the fall of snow flakes upon snow) 

And then the lap of the little green slopes against the 
bell buoy's adamant red, 

Or the keening of a taut stay, vibrant, weird, 

The slap-slap-slap of a halyard against a staff, count- 
ing the pulses of the iron heart stowed away in 
the vessel's vitals, 

And the whirr of a gull's wings — 

Oh I say there are poems in sound, 

Poems as many as bubbles here while crossing the bay. 


Crossing On the Seattle Ferry 

And the exquisite poems in sight ! 

I see a sleek-hulled ship, 

Pushed thru the cold green water 

By the unseen, polished blades, rapidly whirling, 

I see a graceful hull at a mooring, 

With a black top-side and a white boot-top, 

And a red boot-top, 

And a green line at the water! 

Without your graceful ends you are beautiful, Hull ! 

Without your mellow colors you are beautiful, Hull ! 

Even afar like a smudge upon the wave you are beauti- 
ful, Hull! 

Even afar as a speck beneath the sun you are beauti- 
ful, Hull! 

I look at our ship's invasion of untrammeled waters 

The drapery of eager commotion that fans out abeam 
and astern, 

The ermine lace of a toppling crest, 

The lathery curd of the wake, 

Cumulous white, 

The side-swell's far-reaching orderly ridges, 

Lifting the sea like curving plow-shares of pearl, 

The smoke tumbling out of the funnels, 

Drooping abeam over the sea, 

Doubling and redoubling and gyrating like dancers 
in a dream, 

Swirling whirl-pools of murk that detach themselves 
and spin into nothingness, 

Queer little torques, 


Crossing On the Seattle Ferry 

Spinning and spinning, and low, are gone, 

Like gray old women in a child's faery tale ; 

And I see the fine-spun radial lines about my aureoled 

head upon the mote-filled water, 
I see it as Walt Whitman saw it — 
It is the halo shine of the God in man, 
Of the God in me — 
And it will make a God of you, Reader, to stand at 

the rail in the sun-stream and gaze at the water 
Marking the bubble swarms beneath the surface, 
Swimming upward and outward, 
Simmering like bees; 

Feeling the stroke of the Chinook on your hand, 
Laughing, laughing, laughing, laughing, the inward 

laugh of joy in the sea-shine and sun-shine, 
Purged by this riotous bath of sense — 
O splash of crimson stack! 
note of shrilling tug ! 
O kiss of wind ! 

ye sheer miracles of sense I 
Quivering flood of sense — 

1 bathe and bathe and bask, 
Exult, and nothing ask 

But that the sunny day endure. 




BEAUTY like yours is stranger than white ships 
That leave their ports to sail into the night: 
Faint winds of mystery are at your lips, 

Young dawns have brought you chrisms of their 
And left their whiteness on you, and old dusks 

Of dreamy-hearted countries haunt your hair 
With shadows and elusive, trailing musks — 

Till you have come most marvellously fair. 
What spirit shores, on what forgotten sea, 

Knew the thin shallop of your shining soul, 
The fragile grace, the gleaming radiancy? 

0, slender barque, what waters yet may roll 
Back from the prow in dancing flowers of foam, 

Or on deep bosoms bear you gently home? 




THE sand which will not hold the print of my shoe, 
Remembers, none the less, 

The birth of stars, 

And the sunken lines of sea-devoured continents. 
It is the gray hair of earth, 
Bleached and wave-beaten, 
That has known the passionate rage of waters, 
White heat of sun, 
And the slow passing of a thousand thousand years. 




UT 00N" . . . "goose" ... and "vulture" . . . 

-L' Thus, from the kings of water and of air, 
Men pluck three catchwords for their empty lips. 
Mock them in turn, wise, dumb triumvirate! 
You, gander, with stout heart tooled like your wings 

of steel, 
What coward knows your soul? 
"Egyptian vultures, clean as cherubim, 
All ivory and jet," sons of the burning sun, 
What creatures call you "foul"? 
And you, nature's own child, 
You most precocious water bird, 
That shouts exultantly among lone lakes, 
You, foremost in the madman's alphabet — 
Laugh in superb contempt at folly's catalogue! 




THE mountain pine is a man at arms 
With flashing shield and blade, 
The willow is a dowager, 

The birch is a guileless maid, 
But the elm tree is a lady 
In gold and green brocade. 

Broad-bosomed to the meadow breeze 

The matron maple grows, 
The poplar plays the courtesan 

To every wind that blows, 
But who the tall elm's lovers are 

Only the midnight knows. 

And few would ever ask it 

Of such a stately tree, 
So lofty in the moonlight, 

So virginal stands she, 
Snaring the little silver fish 

That swim her silent sea. 


The Elm 

But hush! A hum of instruments 

Deep in the night begins, 
Along those dusky galleries 

Low music* throbs and thins, — 
A whispered sound of harps and flutes 

And ghostly violins. 

For what mysterious visitor 
Do all her windy bells 

Ring welcome in t{ie moonlight 
And amorous farewells? . , . 

The elm tree is a lady. 
The midnight never tells. 




WAR-CLANGOR and the city's din 
Fall heavily upon our ears ; 
Our hearts are quick to leap at fears ; 
And multitudinous labors mock 
The night with their persistent grip ; 
When lo, with nibbling jerk and nip, 
To our glad vision enters in 
The little wayward, wanton flock, 
The little snowy, woolly sheep, 
Whose counting woos reluctant sleep. 

These are thy sheep, Theocritus; 
The tiny marching hooves that beat 
A sharp staccato in the dells 
And vales Sicilian ; theirs the bells 
That, silver-tinkling clear and sweet, 
To drowsy dreams are leading us. 
Down ^Etna's slopes to emerald grass 
They come, and softly browsing, pass 
To the cool brooks for watering ; 
For grateful shade, to olive trees 
Deep-murmuring with myriad bees, 
Hark! Hear you not Menalcas sing 
To the shrill pipes of Cory don? 


These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus 

Pan! Pan! Pan! 

In the fervid noon 

Behold, I bring thee 

In my beechen bowl, 

Carved 'round with vine-leaves, 

Chestnuts, and cheese, 

And amber honey, 

And the velvet purple 

Of a grape-cluster! 

Deign thou, God Pan, 
To accept my offerings, 
And give me in return 
Amaryllis, the wilful one, 
To kiss and to embrace 
In the twilight thickets, 
When the Lord Apollo 
Has driven his steeds 
Below the cool rim 
Of the blue ocean ! 

Now one by one, and one by one, 
And — sweet sleep ! — yet one by one. 
Under the slowly darkening sky ^ 

Broidered by Pleiads on the line 
Where weary day and night divine 
Mingle, and earth is musical 
With the black cricket's madrigal 
Up-issuing from the tangled grass — 
The wanton, woolly sheep still pass, 


These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus 

Nosing and nibbling, on and on, 

And bleat .... and browse . . . . and so pass by 

And dispossessed of stress and din — 

The roar of Mars, the shriek of sin — 

With quiet heart, with soothed ear, 

Only a far, dim sound we hear, 

The echo of Menalcas' song 

And the faint pipes of Corydon. 

. . . kindly Pan! 

Fold me in nightly 

With the little flock 

Of divine Theocritus, 

Who sang of them 

As they nibbled at the thickets 

Below frowning ^Etna, 

Where eager shepherd 

And wilful shepherdess 

Clasped and kissed I 





N some walled ancient town this home must be, 
And near, as always, must be heard. . . .the sea. , 

Where nights our foreheads cool. Where drowsily 

The vested robins choir upon the lawn. 

Where we can feel, half-dreaming, one small fawn 

Beneath the dewy pines move wearily, 

Pause, and in silence from the rosary, 

Ponder, with elfin mien, on us 'til dawn. 

Where sunlight rolls in haloes through the flowers. 
Where ruined abbeys rise, their wet lush vines 
Cathedraling the forests. Where the signs 
Of coming storms in skies bring only showers. 

In some walled ancient town this home must be, 
And near, as always, must be heard ... the sea . 




IN God's own garden I have sung alone, 
Moon-borne up to the angels' castle towers, 
And fingering a wind-strung, wild guitar, 
Have sung my soul song to the knee-deep flowers. 

And once an angel tossed a rosy kiss, 
Fluttering to me, a warm butterfly — 

And now, though I may walk in earthly ways, 
My heart still haunts the garden in the sky. 




THE queen laid by her robes of state 
And doffed her jeweled crown. 
With hushed feet and look elate 
She from the dais stepped down. 

"I go into retreat, my friends, 

My loyal friends, alone, 
For faults I have to make amends 

And any sin atone." 

They bent their knees, and saw her pass, 
Though each one said within: 

"The Queen's soul is a looking-glass 
For Heaven. It holds no sin." 

They saw her pass beyond the gates 
With bowed and uncrowned head. 

They said, "She goes to Hermit Kate's 
To pray there for the dead." 

But when she reached the darksome wood 

Beyond her subjects' eyes, 
The quiet queen in rapture stood, 

Then danced with wild emprise. 


The Queen's Shrift 

She gathered leaves and made a wreath 

To place upon her brow. 
Unbending trees she stood beneath ; 

No shrub a knee did bow. 

She knelt to kiss a cool flower's face; 

She cupped her hands and took — 
And meanwhile said a fervent grace — 

A long drink from a brook. 

She sat upon its bank and shed 
Wrought shoe and silken stocking. 

A bird above her leaf-crowned head 
Would not leave off his mocking. 

A girdle rare, with wondrous care 
All threaded thick with pearls, 

She cast aside; unpinned her hair 
And freed its netted curls. 

She danced and sang. A kiss she threw 
To calm white clouds which floated 

As if they all her madness knew 
And on her gladness doted. 

In her bare hut, stood Hermit Kate, 

And told her beads again 
For youthful majesty who sate, 

Denying youth, to reign. 


The Queen's Shrift 

The Queen returned, a tranquil mind, 
With chastened mien, and solemn air. 

Her maidens marveled much to find 
At night, a green leaf in her hair. 





WHAT shall I do with my heart 
That will not go with thee, 
Lover of mine, knight of mine, guide to the heights 
There is a dream to follow 
That will not let me be — 
I must go down to the marshland's water, hiding from 
wind and star! 

"What shall I do with thy heart 

Seeking me without rest — 
I who must strip all hands from me, guarding my steps 
in fear? 
Turn from the faery woodland, 
Pass to thy holy quest — 
I must go seek for the track of the swan and the sound 
of the step of the deerl 




HERE, where the eternal waters fling themselves, 
Motion itself stands still. The flashing storm 
Of change has wrought itself in changeless form, 
Sculptured in white between the rocky shelves. 

Over this ledge the centuries are hurled, 
Fixed in one mighty instant; and all time 
Sounds in a single multitudinous chime, 

Here in a green cleft of the lonely world. 




f f^OOD-NIGHT," my father says and winds the 

^J clock. 
My mother smooths her work and lays it down, 
And puts her thread and thimble in their place. 
She folds my father's paper, "Coming, Ned," 
She calls to him and then she lifts my face 
And kisses me. "Good-night, my dear," she says, 
I close my book and go upstairs to bed. 

A little sweet wind makes my curtains sway, 
A bar of moonlight lies along the spread. 

Across the hall, I hear low voices say, 

"I 'phoned about the milk. The gas-bill came to-day." 

The baby stirs and whimpers fretfully 

And Mother comforts him, "Sh, sh, my dear," 

She croons ; then whispers from my doorway, "Jean, 

You're warm enough? How bright the moon is here! 

Good-night." A door shuts. Then the clock strikes 

And everyone is fast asleep but me. 

A motor-car purrs by and stops. I hear 
Low laughter from the little house next door. 



Then comes a pause and though I cannot see, 
I know someone has just been kissed. And soon 
"Good-night," again. The motor glides away. 
Somebody whistles clearly down the street. 
I lie here in my room that's bright as day, 
My body white and still beneath the sheet, 
My heart a mad thing underneath the moon. 




THE freesia that you loved so well 
Is here in hosts, 
And from each slender ivory bell 
Rise fragrant ghosts 

Of grey dawns by the sea, that passed 
In silent converse, starred with pain, 

Moments too exquisite to last, 
Or come again. 




OUTSIDE is lonely; shut the door," 
He says, and bending quickly brings 
The fire to a boyish roar. 

Outside is full of friendly things: 

Sighs intimate and leaf-caress, 

The answering bosom of the gloom. 

With all the heart of loneliness 

Our hearts infect this prisoned room. 




THE wayside maples have put up 
Their ruffled autumn parasols — 
Chrome-yellow, like a buttercup, 
And through the arching roof there falls 
The softest, clear, translucent light 
From daybreak to the brink of night. 

And under every drooping tree 
There is a little paven plat 
Where the leaves, dripping dreamily, 
Have made a crumpled golden mat; 
A place of honey light and hush, 
Where Life pauses in its rush — 

And the long restlessness is done — 
The race with the relentless years — 
And past and future melt in one, 
And the old sadness disappears — 
And that estrangement we call death 
Measures no longer than a breath. 

The spirit is no more concerned 
With Time, and all its moil and maze — 
For she has found the door, and turned 
Into the glad eternal ways ; 
And every treasure of her heart 
Comes speeding from its realm apart. 




AH, let me be ; go bend thine aim 
On swifter bucks, on sprightlier game: 
So may the love my boyhood set 
On apples, rule my body yet. 
Later, if thou shalt hear avow : 
"Old Brown eats no more Apples, now I" 
Remember me ; omit the tear ; 
Lay Apple-blossoms on my bier. 
Huntress and Queen, awhile forego 
The breathless chase ; reluctant, throw 
Thy silver arrows clanging down, 
And look thy envious last on Brown. 

But when the kindly Autumn brings 
To every place her pleasant things, 
Then eat two Apples, blood and gold, 
And set the close-gnawed cores in mould 
Above my quiet grave, to grow 
Two goodly trees, whose buds shall blow, 
Whose fruit shall thud, through many a day, 
On the turf, above my easy clay. 

Then, having done the best by me, 
Back, Huntress, to thine archery: 
Again let field and woodland ring 
With twanging of thine eager string. 




APPLE-EATER, you proclaim 
Such your character and name. 
Why then show such scorn for these 
Apples of Hesperides? 
Two brown apple-seeds my eyes 
Brought by Eve from Paradise. 
Red and gold you own are fair; 
Here are lips and burnished hair. 
Yet you counsel me forsooth, 
I should set a pensive tooth 
In two apples (only two?), 
And should eat, remembering you. 
By the primal apple-tree 
You shall eat, remembering me ! 

I have twisted apples down 
E'en from Adam unto Brown. 
Break the fruit, you'll see my power; 
Hidden star that shows the flower. 
You are not so old and staid ! 
Can it be that you're afraid 
Of the sign we conquer by 
Venus Victrix, Eve, and I? 




THE four walls I had always known, 
Grew close like prison bars; 
I levelled them that I might live 
Unbound save by the stars. 

I levelled them with strong, glad strokes; 
I worked untiringly, 
As one who hews through virgin woods, 
A vista toward the sea. 

And when at last the walls lay low, 
And earth and sea and sky 
Were all that compassed me about, 
Wild winds came rushing by. 

In fear I hunted for the stones, 
To build my wall again ; 
But they were gone, and mockingly, 
Down poured the cold gray rain. 




THE broomgrass glows with the sunset's fire 
Long and long when the sky forgets, 
Into the dusk like a hid desire, — 
Purple of flame and of violets. 

Rust of roses and roses' ashes. 

Cold in the night, I can fancy still 
Opals of glamour, remembering flashes ! 

When the swamp folk scratch on the window-sill 

And ghost winds whisper, one to another, 

Rain-sounding legends of waiting and dread; — 

Brother huddled to little brother, 
Wild things sleep warm in the broomgrass bed. 

Ashes of roses and evening-glories, 

Make me a lair at your smouldering core, 

You that have hidden the sunsets' stories, 
Bear with a broken secret more 1 




I BREATHE your pity like enfolding air. 
I know, because the blood-streaked dew 
Has wrung my forehead, too, 
In pity of your despair. 

And that you died for me I knew 

Because along that sorry way 

I should have gone that day 
And died for you. 




MY soul went out before the dawn, when stars were 
in the sky, 
The river rushed along its course, the night wind hur- 
ried by, 
And bore upon its April breath the stag-hound's moan- 
ing cry. 

I felt so free, so free — as from a burden loosed away, — 
Alone, without, I heard what wind and river had to 

One should be dead to understand such orators as they ! 

I came along the garden paths, so dark and damp with 

I thought of all within the house, but most of all of 


Still wrapped in earthly veils, that I had thinned, and 
broken through. 

I stopped beneath your window, in the turret of the 

And whispered low the little name I loved the best of 

The little name, the childish name, they gave when you 

were small! 


The Soul's Goodbye 

And did you know that, passing out, it was to you I 

And did you hear, and did you hear that whispered 

little name? 
For sudden, through the lattice blind, I saw a candle 

flame . . . 

The wind rushed past your lattice, and the ivy tapped 

again — 
The sweetness of our friendship welled within my soul, 

and then 
I turned towards the starry road that is not known of 





EVENING bells of Erin, 
From across the sea 
Do I hear you ringing, 
Bringing peace to me? 

Bells of busy Dublin, 

Through the jumbled sounds 
Of the darkling city 

Your deep jangling pounds. 

Over Meath's green grassland 
Comes your mingled tone 

To the weary farmer 
Working late, alone. 

Famous bells of Shandon, 

Steady, soft, and clear 
Are the strokes you're striking, 

Bells without a peer! 

But the bells of Mallow 

Ring within my heart 
Heedless of unheeding sea 

And two lands apart. 


Bells of Erin 

Again I see the Castle 
And the sprawling town, 

Muddy, racing river, 
Meadow grass, unmown. 

Evening bells of Erin, 

From across the sea 
One day shall you be ringing 

Lasting peace for me? 




IF grief should come to me 
Like a big wind bringing the rain. 
Or if sorrow should cramp my heart 
With its pain, 

I know where my heart would turn, 
As a battered flower to the sun, — 
To your face — with its wrinkled smile — 
And its fun. 




THE smell of hot bread 
With a gold-brown crust, 

The gentle light of afternoon 
Dozing upon the shining windowpanes; 
The old rug whose faded threads 
Melt into the brown scrubbed floor; 
The tick of a clock 
Above the sink; 

An occasional faint plop of water 
Dropping from the faucet. 

A leaf floats to the dry grass; 

The wind breathes; 

The light softens, 


Imperceptibly ; 

Upstairs the indeterminate sounds 

Of human movement 

Flutter the air: 

Mother rising, vaguely as in a dream, 

From her nap. 

The quiet ripples away 

From the staircase, 



Eddies into the corners of the kitchen 

As she comes down; 

Comes down 

And parts the silence 

As a stone parts the waters. 




THE hall is windy with the wings of dreams; 
And as I hold you in this quiet place, 
The darkness grows a benediction hushed 
About the rapture of your lifted face! 

From what sweet lyric did you blossom out? 

From what old master's nocturne did you come? 
How long did Leonardo trace your heart? 

How many striving songs have faltered dumb? 

A hush is brooding dimly at your lips. 

You cling to me and let me hold you long. 
You do not even murmur any word ; 

Your eyes are silence and your breath is songl . . . 

The hall is windy with the wings of dreams ; 

They brush our hearts with fire till we start . . . 
Your eyes are silence and your breath is song — 

And thronging flames are crying through my 
heart I . . . 




I BRING to you no common gift, 
Though dream-possessed and wonder-eyed; 
I have but watched the hours sift 
Between my fingers open wide. 

I never clutched the instant sands 

Of Time, have neither toiled nor spun, 

And yet I come with richest hands 
Now toil and spinning-time are done. 




WHEN Chaucer sang — did he pursue 
A mystic or exotic strain, 
Not so ! From folk he met he drew 
His Canterbury train! 

And Shakespeare of the deathless page — 
What won him immortality? 

Because he made our world his stage 
He lives for you and me ! 

And Burns, his brief life madly spent, 
Why does he sway us to this hour? 

He voiced a ruined maid's lament! 
He mourned a broken flower ! 

Ye who aspire to follow Song, 

Spurn not the plain, broad path of art! 
Walk with great poets through the throng 

And feed the common heart! 




I HAVE blown bubbles in the night, 
So weary of the day was I ! 
Though flowers' dreams were petalled tight 
And gold and blue had left the sky. 

I have blown bubbles in the night 
Though there were never eyes to see 

My little, floating worlds alight 
With black and silver witchery. 

I have blown bubbles in the night 
Though there were never hearts to mark 

How one by one they touched the stars 
And vanished in the sudden dark! 




THE curving road gleams through the fog, 
And beckons me ; 
Dim lucent mists wrap me about 
In secrecy. 

Oh, peopled loneliness! Oh, dreams! 

Oh, world shut out! 
Drawn swaying shades, hearts' fire within, — 

Life's storm without! 

The air is thick with crowding thoughts, 

Like half-heard wings ; 
An uncaused bliss wakes in my soul 

And waking sings. 

Familiar lamps shine mist-transformed 

Through ghostly trees; 
And I walk rapt in exquisite 

Lonely unease. 

Hang low and hearten me, dim peace,— 

Hang close and low; 
Wrought to thine obscure ecstasy 

I forth would go. 


___ Mist 

Oh, presence winged, unnamed, serene, 

Brood thou and shine ; 
Thy gray plumes shroud no earthly light, 

Thou bird divined 




I AM but a dusty name 
Blowing down a ruined stair, 
I whose passion was a flame 
Kindling all the windy air. 

Veil my dreaming with a sigh. 

Light is drowned in shadow's foam, 
I, whose dream may never die, 

Knew not when I wandered home. 




YOUTH slipped off me like a garment, 
Fell away and left me free — 
(Billowing cloak of many colors, 
Youth was beautiful to see!) 

Then slipped weight from off my shoulders,- 
( Strange how heavy dreams may be!) — 

And a trouble from my spirit, 
Bruised and sore with honesty. 

Then was torn the rainbow veiling 
From my eyes that I might see. 

Now I stand aghast, ecstatic, 
Reaching for Reality. 




OTHERS make their poems of aiiv 
Roses, dew, and song of birds, 
Weaving all with dainty care, 
In the magic web of words. 

Such resources have I none, 

Varied excellence of art. 
Stuff for verse I've only one: 

Throbbing tissue of my heart. 




THE long and melancholy wind 
Blows over the salt sea; 
It sounds like one whose soul has sinned 
And never can get free. 

And all our souls alike have sinned 

And who shall set us free? 
Oh, sombre, melancholy wind 

And desolate, salt sea. 




OH, my youth was hot and eager, 
And my heart was burning, burning, 
And the present joy seemed meagre, 
Dwarfed by that perpetual yearning. 

I was always madly asking 
Ampler beauty, keener pleasure, 

Had not wit enough for basking 
In the sunshine, rich with leisure. 

Now with ripeness of October 
I have reasoned and reflected. 

And I feed my soul, grown sober, 
With the crumbs that I rejected. 




THE passage of dead leaves in spring 
Is like the aged vanishing. 
Amid the bustle and delight 
Of beauty thronging sound and sight, 
Their lengthened course we hardly know 
Nor mark their exit when they go. 
Yet through the burst of budding green 
And blossoms rich with varied sheen 
A brown leaf sometimes flutters by 
And breeds a sombre revery. 




I MIGHT have been a worker, but I'm nothing but a 
I tell my idle stories in a philosophic tone. 
In a fuzzy, spiny mantle of remoteness softly furled 
I lie and watch with half-shut eyes the stupefying 

And they bustle and they rustle with their self-con- 
suming din. 

And eager feet go hurrying out and tired feet come in. 

Like Bottom, when they hear a sound they all must 
rush to see. 

They're always running after life. I let it come to me. 




T 'M sick to death of money, of the lack of it, that is, 
■■■ And of practising perpetually small economies ; 
Of paring off a penny here, another penny there, 
Of the planning and the worrying, the everlasting care. 

The savages went naked and no doubt digested fruit, 
And when they longed for partridge all they had to do 

was shoot. 
But it may be Mrs. Savage was extravagant in paint 
And all the little Savages made juvenile complaint. 

"I want a bow like We-We's. I want a fine canoe. 
I don't have half such dandy things as other fellers do." 
And Mrs. Savage quite agreed it was an awful shame. 
So Mr. Savage sighed about expenses just the same. 




SHE fled me through the meadow. 
She fled me o'er the hill. 
With such a fling she fled, oh, 
She may be flying still. 

But doubtless she grew weary 
By thicket or by wood. — 

A dainty virtue, dearie, 

That fled when none pursued. 




THAT odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, 
Declared himself unique. 
How men persist in doing so, 
Puzzles me more than Greek. 

The sins that tarnish whore and thief 

Beset me every day. 
My most ethereal belief 

Inhabits common clay. 




DAY and night I wander widely through the wilder- 
ness of thought, 
Catching dainty things of fancy most reluctant to be 

Shining tangles leading nowhere I persistently unravel, 
Tread strange paths of meditation very intricate to 

Gleaming bits of quaint desire tempt my steps beyond 

the decent. 
I confound old solid glory with publicity too recent. 
But my one unchanged obsession, wheresoe'er my feet 

have trod, 
Is a keen, enormous, haunting, never-sated thirst for 





f" MIND, love, how it ever was this way: 
*■ That I would to my task; and soon I'd hear 
Your little fluttering sigh, and you would say, 
"It's bed-time, dear." 

So you would go and leave me at my work; 

And I would turn to it with steady will, 
And wonder why the room had grown so dark, 

The night so chill. 

Betimes I'd hear the whisper of your feet 
Upon the stair; and you would come to me, 

All rosy from your dreams, and take your seat 
Upon my knee. 

"Poor, tired boy!" you'd say. But I would miss 
The lonely message of your eyes, and so 

Proffer the hasty bribery of a kiss, 
And let you go. 

But now, dear heart, that you have scaled the stair 
To that dim chamber far above the sun, 

I fumble with my futile task, nor care 
To get it donfe. 



For all is empty since you said good-night 
(So spent you were, and weary with the day!) 

And on the hearth the ashes of delight 
Lie cold and gray. 

Ah, sweet my love, could I but wish you down 
In that white raiment which I know you wear; 

And hear once more the rustle of your gown 
Upon the stair; 

Could I but have you, drowsily-sweet, to say 
The tender little words that once I knew — 

How gaily would I put my work away 
And go with you. 




MY heart can't break, but closes like a flower 
That waits in windless places for the day — 
Until the arrowy dawn finds some swift way 
To pierce its paleness with a gleaming hour. 

And when at last I look without offense 

Through windows and in mirrors that were yours, 

The stranger shadow in them reassures 

My heart that it has learned indifference. 

So hour and hour and hour and dark and light 
Go rustling slowly by as women do, 
Trailing complacence in a silken dress. 

Until, crying with loneliness some night, 
I wake from that old dream of losing you 
To find my hands closed tight on emptiness. 




DRIED stems of asters 
And goldenrod once gay, 
The zero wind is playing 
With you this winter day. 

White, white are the snowfields, 

The hills are purple blue, 
But even your little shadows 

Are brighter now than you. 

And yet, frail ghosts of asters 

And saddened goldenrod, 
How willingly your green souls crept 

Back to the kindly sod I 




THERE is a time of snow in all adventure, 
A space of whiteness, and of quiet, shutting in, 
There is a winter, not of life — but thinking, 
That with its lack of blossoms gives us grace, 
That in its silent tide of patience 
Will cleanse our thoughts as all the fields are clean. 

There is a waiting, blanketed with musing 
Before the spring can turn through shining rain. 
We must be quiet and hide away our blunders, 
Receive the smoothing cover of repose, 
And in the passionless and clear, chill ether, 
Fill with untainted breath our burning souls. 




C>ME up the hill and listen to the snow; 
The trees will snare it in their branches for you, 
The almost enunciating trees; 
And the uttering wind will nudge you, 
Once, again, and thrice, 
Then rest on the flat air, 
Calm with the stillness of unfallen snow. 
And the voioe of the snow? What is it? 
It is neither the wind, 
Nor the trees, 
Yet they are part of it. 
Be still and listen now; 
Here is the first faint drifting of the snow. 
For us who believe in it it's hard 
To make you feel a thing we cannot tell; 
For the voice has never spoken words, 
Yet there is a murmuring in our hearts, 
And when we come to sequestered crannies of the 

Or mount to hilltops like this one of ours 
To have a spell of listening, 
All that we can say is that we somehow 
Make annotations to an unseen text. 
Give me your hand; we'll stand here under the trees 


Stress of Snow 

And watch the grey oust every sharper light 

And the first soft impinging of delicate flakes, 

Feel the upgathered wind set free again 

And the lunging trees rock to our very feet; 

Wince at our blinded vision, and have our blood 

Fevered with the tumult of the snow. 

Do you shiver? 

Is this different from your land? 

I know some who suffer anguish at this point 

And say when there's no juncture to the sky 

And earth that their souls's blind and panic-struck 

And dumb, and that these clustering flakes 

Grapple at their heart — 

Would bow their drooping soul, 

Like a bent stressed twig, earthward 

Under this white annulment of the snow. 

But I think they are mistaken; 

The voice of the snow itself does not say this — 

And I will not have you think it. 

Hark, the wind is failing — feel its lessening sting; 

The flakes are loitering, they lapse, 

And you can see the steel-blue woods, 

And far off against the blackening sky, 

The smoothed-off sinews of the hills. 

Something here there is that calls for acceptance— 

Urges the upright breasting of the storm, 

Urges the upgathering 

Of all the brunt of its every bitter sting 

And the hurt loneliness of its aftermath— 


Stress of Snow 

Urges to make one with yourself 

The lifeless rigidity of earth, 

The unrelenting night 

And menace of the impalpable cold — 

Urges the gesture of wide open arms 

That is but an intimation 

Of your own soul's amplitude, 

Wide as the acquiescence of the snow . . : . 

And what if there were an issue to all this 

That leads beyond the frontiers of the snow 

To frankness of new skies? 

What if in the banishment of death 

We meet the ambushed confirmation of our dream? 

And find 

That death is when you challenge all of life? 

Shall we then dread the solace of the snow? 

And if we cannot follow this dim leading, 

The snow still is not unkind; 

For it isolates our human love, 

And leaves us two alone in a great white world, 

You and I, alone, and with us love 

And the amplitude of soul I'd roof you with; 

My soul, like a hand's palm enclosing you, 

And its first faint touches, like the white flowers of 

the snow, 
That melt in anguish against your loveliness — 
My love relentless as the night, 
Undesisting as the completed storm, 
Quiet as the white breast of earth, 


Stress of Snow 

Warm as the candid ardency of snow 
Consecrate with the innocence of you. . . . 

Suppose we don't think any more? 

You haven't found the storm so very harsh? 

Your cheeks are glowing and your eyes are calm; 

What if your toes are cold? 

We'll warm them now — 

We'll scamper down the frozen hill, 

And storm the darkened house and light it up, 

And give a quick release to patient logs, 

And sit close by, and think how it may be 

Out in the crisp and tinkling night — 

And we'll be drowsy, and keep safe and warm 

Within us the simplicities of snow. 




THE wind is a finger on the pane, 
The firs a cloak across the snows, 
The moon a lantern down the lane, 
Where an old witch-woman goes; 
But here the firelights dance and lie. 
And up from the hearth the great sparks fly: 
While the cat hums sleepily. 

Gather you close and round your ear 
To nurse's voice old and slow, 
While nurse's nose makes a shadow queer 
On the wall where the fireflames glow. 
Stretched at their ease the two dogs snore, 
From the big brown bear skin on the floor: 
And our hair stirs creepily. 

. . . Hist, hark! ... A crackling spark — 
The cat hums sleepily. 

On winter nights, they say, they say, 
When everyone is fast asleep, 
The forest dances a rare gambade 
To a tune the small stars keep, 



And all the pine trees, unafraid, 
Sway in a limb-locked black charade 
Down the hillside steep, so steep, 
The shadowy hillside steep. 

O then, if one has eyes to see, 

There follows the quaintest mystery, 

But should one tell, why then, why well, 

They'd turn one into a fairy bell, 

Or the bole of an old oak tree. 

. . . Hist, hark ! Just a spark — 

A little man, with cap of red, 

And horn-brown lamp of glow-worm light, 

An elfin porter, I've heard said, 

Comes out and peers around the night, 

And then, as sudden as rain drops quite, 

The forest rustles overhead: 

Rustles, and shivers, and laughs, and is still, 

And out from thicket, and out from hill, 

With an echo of horse and a tinkle of horn, 

And glittering spears of a half inch thorn, 

Rides a fairy hunt, as sure as you're born. 

With 'IViorte Halloa!' and a 'Harke Away' 

The night is filled with tumult gay ; 

But save you're possessed of the keenest of ears, 

You'd think it the crinkle of ice, my dears. 

Way in the front is a tiny shape: 

Breath of my body, a fairy ape! 

No, it's a spider! No, it's a bear! 

As small as the round black seed of a pear! 



And how it roars as it bustles and bounds 
From the very jaws of the fairy hounds. 
Down the valley, and everywhere; 
Up the hillside, far and near, 
With a silver call and a faint fanfare, 
And a 'Ride him down!' and a 'Lend me your spear!* 
Till suddenly, thrice, and loud, and clear, 
A cock crows into the frosty air, 
And the little man with cap of red, 
Waves his lantern above his head- 
So . . .! Then one by one the stars turn white: 
Then, cloaked and sandaled, through the night, 
Before you know it, in cowl of gray, 
Strides the bearded palmer day. 
The forest is still, but the old black oak 
Stir in their sleep and chuckle and choke. 
. . . . Hist! Hark! What was that? 
Hu-ush ! Hu-ush ! Only the cat. 




WHEN waking in the hollow dark,- 
A microscopic me ! — 
Both eyes are pasted shut with fear 
Of something I might see. 

But when a floor or wall rips out 

A curse or threat or cry, 
My eyeballs leap out in the night 

As up my eyelids fly. 

And then my eyes go wandering, 

Hoping to find a star, 
But if they do, its very small, 

And very faint and far. 

They try to reach horizon's edge; 

They ache as on they plod; 
They only want a limit, 

A something less than God! 

But when there is a breath or stir 

Of someone in a bed, 
A comfortable, human sound, 

They go to sleep instead. 




A FROG'S a very happy thing, 
Cool and green in early spring, 
Quick and silver through the pool 
With no thought of books or school. 

Oh, I want to be a frog — 
Sunning, stretching on a log, 
Blinking there in splendid ease, 
Swimming naked when I please, 

Nosing into magic nooks, 
Quiet marshes, noisy brooks — 
Free ! and fit for anything — 
Oh, to be a frog in spring! 


APPLE blossoms look like snow, 
They're different, though. 
Snow falls softly, but it brings 
Noisy things: 

Sleighs and bells, forts and fights, 
Cosy nights. 


Songs For Parents 

But apple blossoms when they go, 

White and slow, 

Quiet all the orchard space 

Till the place 

Hushed with falling sweetness, seems 

Filled with dreams. 


r I ^HE birches that dance on the top of the hill 
■*- Are so slender and young that they cannot keep 
They bend and they nod at each whiff of a breeze, 
For you see they are still just the children of trees; 

But the bircnes below in the valley are older, 
They are calmer and straighter and taller and colder, 
Perhaps when we're grown up as solemn and grave, 
We, too, will have children that do not behave. 




WE fight the Wind-gods, Mike and I, 
The Wind-gods blustering from the sky, 
For, as we shake the city street, 
The Wind-gods and our engine meet. 

Then, when I let her out, there comes 
A roaring like a thousand drums, 
The Wind-gods singing in our ears, 
Stinging our straining eyes to tears. 

Across the flats, while gaining head, 

You think you have the Wind-gods dead, 

But when night crowds along the sky 

You come to where the Wind-gods lie, 

And strike the cut and climb the hill 
While all around grows cold and chill, 
Then suddenly the Wind-gods leap 
Upon you as you skyward creep, 

While every throbbing rod and wheel, 
And every ounce of pushing steel 
Are straining up to gain the crest, 
Against the sullen Wind- gods pressed. 


The Wind-Gods 

Mike swings the door and then the light 
Leaps out upon the driving night, 
And shows the roll of twisting clouds 
That leave the stack like sooty shrouds. 

The Wind-gods toss the sparks up high, 
Like stars against the moving sky; 
Ahead the golden puddles shine 
Lit by the headlight on the line, 

And up we climb and all the wnile 
The fight we're winning mile by mile. 
Watching the lightning strike the rail 
And break into a silver hail. 

We reach the level of the crest 
The Wind- gods for a moment rest, 
And then they follow whistling shrill 
As down the grade we coast the hill, 

Mike shouts across the cab to me, 
"They ain't what they're cracked up to be, 
I'll give 'em credit, they fought hard!" — 
Then 'cross the switches in the yard 

The coaches rattle as we slow, 
And all those sleepers never know 
How Mike and I along the route 
Tired the howling Wind-gods out. 




ASTERN-LIPPED angel stranger lays hold upon 
my hand; 
He leads me out with Lot, my spouse ; across the pallid 

With the handful of The Righteous for whom the Lord 

will stand, 
Culled from merry Sodom and Gomorrah. 

The Righteous! The Righteous! 

Their eyes are bleak and bright 

They hunger after grace by day 

And thirst for it by night. 

They love a chill Jehovah 

Who is pitiless to smite 

All save The Righteous! The Righteous! 

Across the arid desert in the tender, new-born day, 
Away from mirth and melody which august wrath will 

Away from sleeping Sodomites, the friendly and the 

And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah! 


The Choosing 

Across the parching desert they are leading me in 

Away from green and growing things toward a 

trackless waste, 
From the merry Sodom sinner, forsaken and disgraced, 
And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah ! 

The Righteous! The Righteous! 

Their feet are fleet with fear. 

They speed with eyes that strain ahead. 

And yet they pant to hear 

The scalding rain of brimstone 

On the cities they held dear; 

Such be The Righteous! The Righteous! 

Now I was born a Righteous and The Righteous are 

my kin, 
And gates of bliss shall open wide to welcome me 

Yet Sodom sinners are my friends, so I love sin, 
And the pleasant wicked in Gomorrah! 

The Righteous! The Righteous! 

My tears will make me blind. 

My tears are salt upon my lip. 

I cannot leave behind 

To sear in lonely brimstone 

The merry and the kind. 

Saving my soul with The Righteous! 


The Choosing 

Pale Lot and august Abraham . . . the awful- 
angel guide . 

I work my fingers from his grasp . . . and now I 
slip aside . . . 

The sky is red with Righteous Wrath, but I would 
rather bide 

With the pleasant wicked in Go 




'The Bridge Club met at the home of Mrs. 

on Wednesday last. Mrs. Senator Tom Jones, 

a pioneer of County, made high score, the prize 

being a pair of silk stockings." 

Item from the society column of any weekly paper in 
the North-west 

WOULD you tell an old pal, Mrs. Senator Jones, 
If the stuff that he's reading is true? 
Was something wrong with the dealer's box 
That the bank paid nothing but four-bit sox 
To her that was Boston Lou? 

Now honestly, didn't you grin at yourself, 
Sitting in at that ladylike game? 
Did you think of the days when chips was few? 
Did the cards behave like they used to do? 
Did a full house look the same? 

Remember the night, down at Timothy's place 
When you emptied your poke on the black, 
An' the wheel spun round, an' it left you broke, 
An' you laughed as if it was all a joke, 
An' you slapped old Tim on the back? 


Mrs. Senator Jones 

Remember the smoke, an' the dealer's drone, 
An' the click of the ivory ball? 
The big game running on day an' night, 
With twenty thousand, gold, in sight, 
And the hush when a man would call? 

Ain't there plenty of times, Mrs. Senator Jones, 
When the looking-glass shows you're, well, plump, 
That something pulls at you from the Past, 
Till you have to talk pretty loud an' fast 
To keep down that rising lump? 

Say, Lou, when you feel it's a mighty big job 
Living up to that "Senator" stuff, 
Jest remember the old gang's kind of proud 
To have Lou one of the top-notch crowd; 
Set your teeth, keep a-fighting — an' bluff! 




DO I remember Silent Sam? 
Say, who'd forget a guy- 
That never spoke no moro'n a clam 

Till when he come to die! 
It's fourteen year since St. Cassien 

First lamped that noisy gink, 
An' he never cracked his jaws, but when 
He'd crook his arm to drink ! 

You reckon 'd he was livin' still 1 

Say, Pal, are you all right? 
Why all the way to Rocky Spill 

Men tell about that night! 
Say, grab that coyote-eared Canuck, 

And stand me to a dram, 

And hear how righteous anger bruk 
The fast of Silent Sam. 

Twas in old square-head Jason's hell; — 
The old Elite Saloon: 

Twas Sunday night, bad luck, as well, 
An' the thirteenth day o' June: 


The Last Speech of Silent Sam 

And every cussed lumber- jack 

For twenty mile aroun', 
From St. Pierre to Pied-du-Lac, 

Had dragged his thirst to town! 

Outside the night hung thick a3 fat, 

Inside 'twas bright as day; 
Behind the old pianner sat 

MacGregor from Beaupre, — 
With Jean Ladoux a' fiddlin' fast 

Enough to break a trace: 
And all the boys was sittin', massed 

About the dancin' space. 

There was old "Fi-donc" an' Gun-shy Jim, 

(The one that knifed Duneen) 
Big Voix-du-Loup, an' Six-toed Slim, 

And some I never seen. 
Poor Silent Sam, blear-eyed an' gone, 

Sat soppin' up the "stuff," 
A' scribblin' po'try, written' on 

His frayed an' dirty cuff. 

The dancers scraped across the floor; 

The music banged an' whined: 
But he never turned a hair, no more 

Than if he was deef an' blind! 
The lamps flared up, the blue smoke swam, 

It eddied, ducked, an' curved; 
And through it Desiree Laflamme 

Ole Jason's whiskey served. 


The Last Speech of Silent Sam 

Where she came from, nobody knew; — 

Just one of Jason's girls: 
With pretty ways, and eyes grey-blue, 

And sunny, tangled curls. 
You know the kind ! And yet, she seemed, 

In some perplexin' way, 
Clean different from the rest, that schemed 

To nab the fellers' pay. 

The sight of her brought to your mind 

All queer, an' dim, an' blurred, 
Forgotten things left far behind, 

You'd seen, or felt, or heard. 
She didn't look like she was part 

Of that there rough-neck crowd ; 
You felt, somehow, she had a heart, 

And her greeting left you proud! 

She treated all us "jacks" the same; 

We called her "Jason's Wine": 
A million times I've left the game 

To watch her beauty shine 
Like some bright vision, to an' fro' 

Beneath the smoke-blued light: 
But her sweetness seemed to overflow 

And flood the room, that night! 

The dancers scraped across the floor, 
The music banged and whined: 

When, all at once, the open door 
Shut with a slam, behind 


The Last Speech of Silent Sam 

Two "forty-eights" that searched the room 

With their circlin' bead on us, 
An' back o' them, with the face of doom, 

Stood a touchy-lookin' cuss! 

The dancin' stopped! Our hands uprose 

A' drippin' cards an' chips: 
An' Sam's good drinkin' fist was froze 

Just halfway to his lips! 
The music choked, an' died away; — 

A spell seemed on the place! 
Only the lights flared up, to play 

Upon the stranger's face! 

His eyes shot straight where Desiree 

Stood starin', lips apart: 
One white hand held her little tray, 

The other clutched her heart ! 
"You fooled me, eh? You think you're free!" 

The snarlin', black lips said: 
"You're free to choose, — this dump, or me;— 

But if you stay, it's dead!" 

A second ticked; — we held our breaths: 

Then snapped her answer "Shoot! 
"I'd rather die a hundred deaths 

With men, than serve a brute!" 
Then some one surged across the floor t 

Things happened lightnin' fast! 
A scream! a shot, — an' then a score! 

The spell was broke at last! 


The Last Speech of Silent Sam 

And when the smoke had cleared away- 
One corpse enhanced the scene: 

But, with his back to Desiree, 
Swayed Silent Sam, drilled clean! 

He clutched the bar, — it seemed to each 
As if the stranger's lead 

Had touched the spring of long-pent speech, 
For this is what Sam said: 

"What this fizz-bang was, — wrong, er right, 

We neither know nor care! 
The p'int is, every man, this night, 

His love-debt did forswear! 
An' if there is a God on high, 

Well, He don't give a damn 
For dogs that lacked the guts to die 

For Desiree Laflamme!" 

He glared at us a minute, then 

His face went ashen grey; 
But no pain was writ upon it when 

He smiled at Desiree! 
An' then Sam sort o' crumpled up, — 

She caught him as he fell: 
And each man, like a beaten pup, 

Slunk out— an' Slim said "Hell!" 

Right where the settin' sun last gleams 
On wind-swept Golden Butte 


The Last Speech of Silent Sam 

We buried him: wrapped in their dreams 

The other graves lie mute, 
But Sam speaks plain, without reserve, 

And tells us, twice each day, 
How we sat bluffed, and lacked the nerve 

To draw for Desiree ! 

I used to smoke, an' watch the jam 

Of logs below the flume, 
An' try to figger out what Sam 

Still muttered from his tomb: 
What was the "love-debt" we'd forsworn? 

Who was / owin' to? 
Why, I'd played straight since I was born! 

Then, all at once, I knewl 

He meant the debt no man can square, 

The debt that grows and grows ! 
That for his mother's tender care 

Each man forever owes. 
So, Pal, here's hopin' if, some day 

Some Desiree Laflamme 
Has need of you or me', we'll pay 

Our debt like Silent Sam I 




THE grim gods of the past have arisen, 
The black swamps throb and the mountains boom 
And the dust from their iron-sandalled feet 
Shrouds the sun in a blood-red gloom: 
Out of the Northern mountain passes 
Flame the banners and glare the swords, 
The old gods march from their wild morasses 
The old gods march with their ancient hordes, 
With scarlet banners and songs of death; 
From marshes white with the bitter brine 
The boar-herds gather, the wolf-clans whine 
Till the land is foul with their streaming breath: 
And the old gods bellow, the old gods roar, 
And the hills shake and the grey seas rave, 
For the old gods march with a thundering tread 
Whose echoes thrill in the nether wave, 
Shaking the bones of a myriad dead 
As in red days of yore. 

Glare of torches in dead men's eyes 
And black nights lit by towns aflare, 
And things of horror and claws that tear, 
And reeking rivers that bloodily rise 
To the old gods' tempest blare. 


The Old Gods March 

Banners black with the blood and smoke 
High in the eddying battle van, 
And great swords red with the murder-stroke, 
And torches aflame as the night comes on — 
For the old gods march in the shape of man, 
The old gods march — sweet days are done — 
Tia fires of home or the fires of hate? 
There is no choice in the wide world — none— 
But we must stand where the old gods tread, 
In ranks of steel, and steady and grim 
Chanting the sweet, wild battle-hymn 
That the old gods hate and dread. 




THERE in an alien land 
Lie quietly, 
Alien no longer now 

For you and me. 
Fragrant the thoughts of you, 

Rare was your soul; 
Life as a gage you flung, 
Facing the goal. 

Life as a gage you flung, 

Flung as a rose; 
Gave it as gentry do 

Gladly to those 
Who gave their glowing youth 

Gladly as you. 
Live in the heart of me — 

I gave you, too. 




NOW Death has done its final violence, 
Let us with tearless, fearless eyes compute 
This last, earth-rendered score, and so salute 
With equal largess his munificence. 
Youth was a thing to spend; with lavish hand 
He scattered this incalculably fine 
And precious coinage, meeting with divine 
Extravagance each miserly demand. 

Shall we, in this ungenerous moment, wrung 
By selfish pity, hoard him in some dim, 

Grief-guarded chamber of the heart's distress? 
Nay! Rather cast his name like gold among 
Those laughter- loving ones who lived by him, 
That they may never know his emptiness. 




IORD, make my childish soul stand straight 
-* To meet the kindly stranger, Fate; 
Shake hands with elder brother, Doom, 
Nor bawl, nor scurry from the room. 




WESTWARD the Happy Islands hide 
Where the Greeks knew their heroes went 
To take their hire for toil, and bide 
Remembering much, in all content. 

And if folk-phrases still hold truth — 
Strong meat within a warding rind — 

Out of our war, the chosen youth 
Pass west, and walks amongst their kind. 

Their elder brethren there, I think, 
Change tale for tale with manly joy; 

And iron names pass over the drink: 
Verdun — Propontis — Aisne — Marne — Troy. 

Ulysses scans the tangled lines 

A sapper draws, of trench and bridge; 

And laughs to hear of burrowing mines 
That cleared and won a bloody ridge. 

Jason, hearing from sailor men 

Terse, salty gossip of the Fleet, 
Feels in his fist an oar again, 

Argo leaping under his feet. 



And one who breathed of middle air 
And died in flight — at ease upon 

A wind-befriended hillock there, 
Holds converse with Bellerophon. 

Folk-phrases still hold truth: their clay— 
Shell-smashed, gas-livid — left behind, 

Our mother takes and uses: They 

Pass west, and walk amongst {heir kind. 




HE stood up in our khaki with the poise 
Of perfect soldiership beneath the praise 
Of the French officer. We caught the words, 
"Conspicuous courage," "bringing wounded in," 
And "decorated with the cross of war." 

Black- faced? Yes, just»a nigger. Nine months since 
He drove a span of bony cotton mules, 
And never had been out of Jasper County 
In Georgia, U. S. A. 

They drafted him, 
Shipped him to barracks, broke him into drill; 
It was a changeling's life. I saw the lad 
After his first three days in cantonment; 
He had just finished polishing his teeth, — 
Novel achievement, and he swung the brush 
With beat ecstatic, chanting joyously: 

"Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, 
Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, 
Lordy, lordy, got a toothbresh, 
And I'll go to heaven on a-high!" 

Perhaps he sings now of the service medal, 
Or of some other meager badge or symbol 


Gee-Up Bar, Mules 

Out of that rich and shattering experience 
Hurled round his simple soul. With hasty hand, 
Life sweeps a loaded vivifying brush 
Over his old dull past. 

And yet, I like 
To think he will come back to Jasper County; 
I pictured him in patched and faded denims ; 
Over the wagon wheel he mounts the seat, 
Evens the lines so the lead team won't jerk, 
Then all together the four nervous mules 
Will straighten tugs, dig in their toes, and pull. 
She shakes, she creaks, she rolls ! 

"Gee-up dar, mules!" 

"General Foch is a fine old French, 
He puts us niggers in a front line trench ; 
The barb-wire down, and the barrage begun, — 
Boche see a nigger, and the Boche he run, 

po' mourner ! 

You shall be free 

When the good Lord sets you free! 

"0, 1 hitched up the mules, and the mules worked fine; 
I hitched 'em to that Hinnenburg line, 
I drawed her back till I snagged her on the Rhine, 
An' the boss come along, and he give me my time. 

po' mourner ! 

You shall be free 

When the good Lord sets you free. 
Gwan-n, mules! Gee-up dar, mules!" 




THE high and silent hills are part of him; 
He knows the creek-bed road, the tug and sway 
Of pines above the mountain's windy rim, 

Touch of the dawn and dusk. His unmarked day 
He used to spend working i the rusty ground 

Beside his hut, or drowsing at the door; 
Few words he had for men — the peaks around 

Gave him companionship and something more. 
Here in the narrow camp he can not find 

His world; orders and uniform are strange; 
He tries to learn, but is too slow, too blind 

With distance and the sleeping skies, to change, 
When he salutes — for all the noise, the crowd, 
It is as if a hill had strangely bowed. 




IN the dark night I heard a purring, 
Near me something was stirring. 

A voice, deep-throated, spoke: 

I litter armies for all easts and wests 

And norths and souths: 

They suckle my girl-goddess breasts, 

And my fierce milk drips from their mouths. 

The voice sang: 

I do not kill! I, Sekhmet the Lion-headed, I! 
But between my soft hands they die. 

I asked: 

O Sekhmet, Lion-headed one, 
How long shall warring be? 

And Sekhmet deigned to make reply: 

Eternally ! 

♦Egyptian Goddess of War and Strife. 

Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed 

Bold in my faith I grew: 

Dread goddess-cat, you lie! 
Warring shall cease! 
My God of love is greater far 
Than you! 

How gentle was the voice of Sekhmet then: 

He of the Star? 

He Whom they called the Prince of Peace— 

And slew? 

And slew again — and yet again? — 

Ah yes! — she said. 

And all about my bed 

The night grew laughing-red: 

Sekhmet I did not see, 

But in that bleeding dusk I heard 

That Sekhmet purred. 




HAD you taken Rome of story, you had taken 
pomp and glory ; 
Had you taken Codrus' Athens, where the broken 
marbles gleam, 
You had taken all the beauty of Ionia for your duty — 
Where you took the courts of Bagdad, there you took 
the courts of dream! 

Did the sacred pave, I wonder, break before a genii 
■ thunder 
Underneath the cursed marching of the Christians in 
the street? 
When the muezzins are calling, while the eastern dusk 
is falling, 
Do you smell the orange blossoms and Damascus 
roses sweet? 

Are there veiled, averted faces which you pass in 
sheltered places 
With a heavy scent of attar and a sheen of cloth-of- 
Have you found a caliph's chalice in some minaretted 
Or the key to mosque and chamber such as 
Scherezade told? 


The Talcing of Bagdad 

Under olive groves enchanted, where the date and fig 
are planted, 
Do you follow as the byways of the secret gardens 
Where the nightingales are singing and the blazing 
pheasants winging, 
Have you found, bewitched, a princess hid in a 
pomegranate seed? 

Had you broken Persia's pinions, when the satraps 
sent their minions 
To the westward of the Iran for an empire supreme, 
You had taken all the splendour of which Asia was the 
vender — 
When you took the courts of Bagdad, then you took 
the courts of dream 1 




GOD pardon me! While cannon spit and roar, 
And dying men sob in their agony 
I am athirst, e'en as I was of yore, 

For draughts of beauty's cleansing ecstasy. 
Nature's fair loveliness, that, like a glass, 

Mirrors the power that animates all space, 
Strikes in my breast strange chords, that sing and pass, 

Leaving me breathless with an upturned face, 
Held by the white clouds' fleecy argosies. 

I am seduced by choirs on outstretched wings; 
Intrigued by perfumes of the orchard trees; 

Slave to the dark wood's Pan-born murmurings 
And to the wind-flowers on the grassy knoll 
God pardon me; but Beauty snares my soul! 


Yet beauty is the leaven that makes sweet 

The world, that else had nought to show but pain, 

Moving amidst us on her sandaled feet 
With healing such as comes of April rain. 

Unheralded, unhymned, she whispers to her own, 


Betrayal and Absolution 

With voice like softly fingered psaltery, 
Her silver veil, a moment, backward thrown 

To comfort us in our great misery; 
That we may catch, through looking on her face, 

Some hint of that, beyond the outmost stars, 
Which transcends boundaries of time and space 

And frees the soul of its material bars: 
Timeless and ageless; the locked door and the key; 
The answer sought; the unsolved mystery 1 




f f /^ANDLE Famine in Paris" the clipping read, 

^^ And I forgot the paper and saw instead 
A dim, old French Cathedral, in the far, first week of 

Lit by candle and taper, and by a strand of sunlight 
A-slant on the knee- worn floor. 

("Candle Famine in Paris" 

Is a light and flickering name. 

These words are spun of a delicate gold 

Which is kin to a candle's flame. 

For who could say in dark words 

That Paris lacks for light, 

When all of France is a flaming torch 

Held up to meet the night?) 

The Cathedral was darkened with women who knelt 

to niched Saints, 
And told anew on silent beads the ancient wartime 

Some were old and their beads slipped slow — 
Some were young for the ancient woe — 
But in the dusk and the silence, each woman as she 



Candle Famine in Paris 

Lighted a tall, white taper and her prayer went up in 

Each woman left a candle there 
And every candle was a prayer. 
Each one lighted her taper from the flame of the one 

Till separate prayers were merged in one — and that 

for France at war. 

Month and year the war went on, and day and night. 

The edict then went out to use no other light. 

They took the candles to live by, for common what 

was divine. 
All Paris was a Cathedral, and every home a shrine. 

Now there is famine in Paris ; 

Famine of light in Paris; 

In radiant, wartime Paris 

The lesser lights are out. 

What need of candles in Paris when day itself is there? 

What need of lighted tapers when daily life is prayer? 

And candles would give but a flickering light 

At the feet and the head 

Of the men who are dead 

In the fields of France at night. 

("Candle Famine in Paris" 
Is a light and flickering name. 
These words are spun of a delicate gold 
Which is kin to a candle's flame. 


Candle Famine in Paris 

For who could say in dark words 
That Paris lacks for light, 
When all of France is a flaming torch 
Held up to meet the night?) 




IT is not strange, yet it is ever strange, 
This host of angels waiting in the air 
Far as the utmost rim and range 
Of thought and unimaginable love. 

The soft wing of a dove 
In flight is strange, yet t is not strange. 
Nor is the heart more strange that leaps and flies away 
Beyond the touch of hunter and of clay. 

let no hunter come to snare 
The heart and clip 

Its wings ! Hunters are visible who trap a bird. 
But hunters go unseen, unheard, 
Go stalking ever with a care 
To catch the heart, 
To shut it up apart 
From love and the free air . . . 

therefore let your hearts look high and slip 
And range 

Far as the utmost rim of love, 
Till they have felt the unimaginable change 
And are themselves the angels in the air! 




What roof could house the glory of the word — 
What walls encompass its infinity? 
I ran beneath the open sky and heard 
The challenge of its glad divinity 
Break in a silver surf against the stars! 

And then, athwart the silence, like a song 

Across still waters when the wind's asleep, 

I heard the happy Dead's pale legions throng, 

Chanting of victory, as deep calls to deep — 

Out where Life's last sweet gate of love unbars I . , 

And knelt, and knew the world-heart kneeling, too, 

In dumb thanksgiving too profound for prayer, 

Until with ecstasy it overflowed 

And flung joy, like red roses, on the air, 

While Dawn trod out the scattered torch of Mars I 




WE are the sons of disaster, 
Deserted by gods that are named, 
Thrust in a world with no master, 
Our altars prepared but unclaimed, 
Wreathed with the blood-purple aster, 
Victims, foredoomed, but untamed. 

Behold, without faith we are fashioned, 
Bereft the assuaging of lies. 
Thirsty for dreams we have passioned 
Yet more for truth that denies. 
Aware that no powers compassioned 
We have grown very lonely and wise. 

Leisure we loved and laughter, 
Our portion is labor and pain, 
For home we are given a rafter 
Of storm and a lintel of rain, 
And all that our hearts followed after 
Is taken and naught doth remain. 

Yet never a new generation 

But shall live by the battles we fight 

And prosper of our immolation 


This Soldier Generation 

And reap of our anguish delight. 
Accepting the great abnegation, 
We are fathers, not children, of light. 

Bruised with the scourges of sorrow, 
Broke with the terrible rod, 
Bidden for respite to borrow 
A poppy-red swarthe of the sod, 
Yet this is our hope: that tomorrow 
Will yield of our strivings — God. 



ALLEN, PERCIVAL. A Philadelphian, engaged in 
banking. The poem here quoted was specially ad- 
mired by John Masefield. 
The Wind-Gods. 

ANDERSON, DOROTHY (Mrs. Philip B. Hoge). 
Has led a wandering existence as the daughter of a 
naval officer. Has appeared principally in C. V. 

A Revenant. 

My Soul is a Moth. 

BAKER, KARLE WILSON. Mrs. Baker is the au- 
thor of a volume entitled "Blue Smoke" and a con- 
tributor to leading magazines, notably The Yale 
Review. Born at Little Rock, Arkansas; now living 
in Nacogdoches, Tex. 
Three Poems — 

I Love the Friendly Faces of Old Sorrows. 
Death the Highwayman. 
Morning Song. 

Pennsylvania now resident in New York. Con- 
tributor to magazines and author of a volume. 
A Dead Man. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

BENET, WILLIAM ROSE. Now assistant editor of 
the Book Section of The New York Evening Post. 
Widely known as a poet both in magazines and in 
some four volumes of lyrics and narratives. 

The Push-Cart. 
BIRD, STEPHEN MOYLAN. A native of Galves- 
ton. Died in West Point Military Academy Janu- 
ary 1, 1919, at the age of twenty-one. Contributed 
only to Contemporary Verse, where his poems at- 
tracted wide attention. So important a critic as the 
late Professor Francis B. Gummere wrote of him: 
"His verses will be read and valued, I think, when 
most of the poetry that now makes loud appeal is 
forgotten." A volume of his poetry is in preparation. 

What if the Lapse of Ages Were a Dream? 


In the Sky Garden. 
BRADFORD, GAMALIEL. Lives at Wellesley Hills, 
Mass. The author of several volumes of verse, 
besides the brilliant historical portraits which have 
been for many years a feature of the Atlantic. His 
latest lyrics will also appear soon in book form. 

The Tissue. 

My Youth. 

Brown Leaves. 

The Drone. 


The Dainty Virtue. 




Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

BROWN, ABBIE FARWELL. A Bostonian, best 
known for her children's books, but also a con- 
tributor of verse to Harper's, Bookman, etc. Her 
poetry has been collected in book form more than 
once; and a new book will appear in the Fall. 

Philadelphian, he now lives chiefly in Wyoming. 
One of the leading younger writers of fiction, also 
the author of a poetry volume "Among the High 



BYNNER, WITTER. Resident in New York, but an 
ardent traveller, especially in the far east. His 
work as poet and playwright is known to all who are 
conversant with the field. 

The Two Drinkers (Translated from the French 

of Charles Vildrac). 
It is not Strange. 

COATES, ARCHIE AUSTIN. Assistant Editor of 
Life. Has published a volume, besides appearing 
widely in popular magazines. 
Summer Sea. 

COATSWORTH, ELIZABETH J. Has lived mainly 
at Pasadena but is now in Boston. Best known for 
her Japanesque lyrics, which have been widely 



Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

CONKLING, GRACE HAZARD. Mrs. Conkling is a 
professor at Smith College. Known to all readers 
of present-day poetry ; the author of "Afternoons in 
April." She expects to publish a new volume 

A Song for My Father. 

Dusk in the Garden. 

QREW, HELEN COALE. A Graduate of Bryn 
Mawr, last heard of as in Baltimore. 
These Are Thy Sheep, Theocritus. 

lander who has begun to appear in American and 
Canadian periodicals. 
Under Autumn Trees. 

DAVIES, MARY CAROLYN (Mrs. Leland Davis). 
Alternates between New York City and Washington 
State. A frequent contributor to magazines, and 
author of "Drums in Our Street." 

The Door. 

Forest Dance. 

DE LA SELVA, SALOMON. A Nicaraguan who has 
immigrated to New York. Author of "Tropical 
Town and Other Poems." 
The Singer Exults. 

DRACHM AN, JULIAN M. Born in Greece; at pres- 
ent in New York. 

Fire- Weed in the Forest. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

DRESBACH, GLENN WARD. A resident of New 
Mexico. The author of numerous volumes of verse, 
and contributor to many magazines. 



DRISCOLL, LOUISE. Lives in Catskill, N. Y. 
Represented in most of the leading anthologies; her 
first volume is to appear shortly. 
God's Pity. 
My Garden is a Pleasant Place. 

FARRAR, JOHN CHIPMAN. A Yale graduate, now 
working on the New York World. Editor of an 
anthology of Yale undergraduate verse and author 
of two original books. 

Songs for Parents. 


A Comparison. 


FLEXNER, HORTENSE. Resides in Louisville. A 
regular contributor to Chicago Poetry and other 


The Drafted Mountaineer Salutes. 

GINSBERG, LOUIS. A graduate of Rutgers College, 
teaching at Woodbine, N. J. 
In the Hallway. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

HALL, AMANDA BENJAMIN. Lives at Norwich, 
Conn. Has contributed to leading magazines and is 
the author of two novels, the second of which is now 
in press. 


The Dancer in the Shrine. 

Joy 0' Living. 

HANLINE, MAURICE A. A Baltimorean. 
A Song of Pierrot. 

HANLY, ELIZABETH. Lives at Caribou, Me. 

HARDING, D. E. P. Mrs. Harding is from Cleve- 

The Queen's Shrift. 

HARE, AMORY (Mrs. Arthur B. Cook). A Phila- 
delphian who has contributed nlany poems to the 
Atlantic Monthly. She expects to publish a volume 



By the Hearth. 

HENDERSON, DANIEL. Has moved from Balti- 
more to New York, where he is connected with Mc- 
C lure's Magazine. Has won success in war poetry 
and published "Life's Minstrel." 
The Poet's Path. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 


HEYWARD, DUBOSE. A young business man of 
Charleston, S. C, who has contributed verse and 
short stories to magazines. 
An Invocation. 

with The Boston Transcript. 
The Tankers. 

HOFFMAN, PHOEBE. A Philadelphian who has 
contributed to various poetry magazines. 
The Freight Yards. 

Princeton, now in New York. 
February Twenty-Second. 

with the New York Nation. 
Land of the Free. 

HOYT, HELEN. Formerly an associate editor of 
Poetry, a Magazine of Verse. 
Make Believe. 

HUCKFIELD, LEYLAND. Of English birth, now 
living at Rochester, Minn. Has appeared often in 
the special magazines. 

The Old Gods March. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

HUNTINGTON, C. A. Resides at Lexington, Mass. 

ford, Cal. Has contributed widely to many sorts 
of magazines. 


English in the University of Texas. Author of the 
volume "Gargoyles." 

A Song of Butte. 

JONES, RALPH M. A clergyman of Chester, Vt. 


JONES, RUTH LAMBERT. A resident of Haverhill, 
Mass. Contributes to popular magazines and news- 


KILMER, JOYCE. The only American poet to fall 
in the war under the colors of his country. A loyal 
friend and contributor to C. V. from the first. His 
collected poems have had the success deserved by 
his manly democratic spirit. 

The Ashman. 

KIMBALL, FRANCIS T. Wrote us from New York. 
Pier 6. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

LAIRD, WILLIAM. The pen-name of a Philadelphia 
poet who has been a steady contributor to C. V. 
and has appeared in other poetry magazines. Rep- 
resented in Miss Harriet Monroe's anthology of the 
new poetry. 

The Anchor. 

An Apple Eater to a Coquette. 

A Prayer. 


LINCOLN, ELLIOTT C. Formerly of Washington 
State, but now in the east. Author of a book. 
Mrs. Senator Jones. 

LONG, HANIEL. Teaching English at the Carnegie 
Institute, Pittsburgh. Has won notable success in 
magazine verse. 

The Day that Love Came Down to Me. 


of Arizona. 

McGEE, MARGARET B. A resident of Colum- 
bus, 0. 

To Dance! 

MAVITY, NANCY BARR. Mrs. Mavity has re- 
cently moved from New York to the west. Con- 
tributor to The Bookman, etc. 
The Unforgiven. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

MAYSI, KADRA. The pen-name of a South Can*, 
lina writer. 

The Taking of Bagdad. 

MIDDLETON, SCUDDER. An editor of the maga- 
zine Romance, New York. Contributor to leading 
magazines and author of "Streets and Faces" and 
"The New Day." 
The Return. 
Lives at Los Gatos, Cal. Contributor of dramatic 
narratives to leading magazines and author of a 

The Choosing. 
MOORE, MARIANNE. A graduate of Bryn Mawr 
who lives in New York City. 
MORRIS, KENNETH. Professor of literature at the 
Theosophical College, Point Loma, Cal. Has pub- 
lished mainly in The Theosophical Path. 
Rondels of Lomaland. 
MORSELL, MARY. A New Yorker. 
Four Walls. 

MORTON, DAVID. Has recently moved from Louis- 
ville to Morristown, N. J., where he is teaching. 
His volume, "Ships in Harbor," which has just won a 
prize of $500, is to appear shortly. Probably the 
best known younger poet in the field of the sonnet. 

Beauty Like Yours. 

"Shipping News." 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

MURPHY, CHARLES R. Formerly of Carmel, CaL, 
now at Wellesley Hills, Mass. Translator of a vol- 
ume of Verhaerer under the title "Songs of the Sun- 
lit Hours." 

Stress of Snow. 

Mr. Arthur Nevin, of Lawrence, Kan., the famous 
composer. Studied at Princeton, was wounded in 
France and awarded the Croix de Guerre. 
A Home. 

the New York Evening Post and now also Associate 
Editor of Contemporary Verse. Her poems here in- 
cluded were printed before she joined the magazine. 
Is planning an original volume of verse. 


Candle Famine in Paris. 

NOVAK, RUTHELE (Mrs. E. W.). American by 
birth; lives at Nashville, Tenn. 

The Man at the Plow. 
A Day in May. 

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J. Formerly of South Yar- 
mouth, Mass., but abroad until recently. Has 
brought out volumes of original verse and edited 
collections of the best magazine short stories. 

Pulvis Et Umbra. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

author of original volumes and translations from the 
Old Irish. 

The Bells of Erin. 

OLIVER, JENNIE HARRIS. Lives in Oklahoma. 
The Ruined 'Dobe. 



from the war to resume the practice of law at Green- 
ville, Miss. A contributor to leading magazines and 
author of "Sappho in Leukas." 

The Soldier Generation. 

sonville, Fla. Has appeared in Art and Life. 


PIPER, EDWIN FORD. An Iowan, author of 
"Barbed Wire." 

Gee-up Dar, Mules. 

POTTER, MARGIE. Lives in Washington, D. C. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

RAVENEL, BEATRICE (Mrs. Frank G.). A resi- 
dent of Charleston, S. C. Contributor of poetry to 
the Atlantic and of short stories to Harper's and 
The Saturday Evening Post. 

To You. 

The Day You Went. 




RAYMUND, BERNARD. A Chicagoan who has 
contributed much to the special poetry magazines. 

most notable of living American women in the field 
of poetry. 
Not I. 

ROBERTS, MARY ELEANOR. A Philadelphian, 
author of "Cloth of Frieze." 

The Coquette to the Apple-Eater. 

ROCHE, JOHN PIERRE. Originally of Milwaukee. 
Was active in soldiers' magazines at the front dur- 
ing the war. 

Life as a Gage You Flung. 

ROOT, E. MERRILL. A graduate of Amherst, resi- 
dent before the war in St. Louis. 
My Mother. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

SABEL, MARX G. A lawyer in Jacksonville, Fla. 

SHEPARD, ODELL. Professor at Trinity College, 
Hartford. Author of "A Lonely Flute." 
The Elm. 

SHUEY, MARY WILLIS. Mrs. Shuey was in Florida 
at our last advice. Has contributed to various 
poetry magazines. 

ange, N. J., and has published a volume entitled 
"The Final Star." 
The Waterfall. 

SPEYER, LEONORA (Mrs. Edgar). Born at Wash- 
ington, but long resident in England as the wife of 
Sir Edgar Speyer, who has given up his title after 
settling in New York. Her most successful poems 
have appeared in C. V., but she has been liberally 
represented in many other periodicals. 


The Naturalist on a June Sunday. 

Sekhmet, the Lion-Headed. 

Spring Cowardice. 

STERN, CAROLINE. Lives at Greenville, Miss. 
The Bird. 

STEWART, CLARE D. ^ives in Seattle. 
Crossing on the Seattle Ferry. 


Biographical Index t o Poets Represented 

TEASDALE, SARA (Mrs. Ernst Filsinger). For- 
merly of St. Louis, now of New York. The best 
known love poet in this country today. 

Three Songs for E. 
Gray Eyes. 
The Net. 

THOMSON, 0. R. HOWARD. A librarian in Wil- 
liamsport, Pa. Has appeared frequently in The 
New York Times and published a volume. 

Betrayal and Absolution. 

who has appeared mainly in C. V., but has also won 
success in popular magazines. 

TROTH, JOHN T. Born in West Chester, Pa., and 
a graduate of Haverford College. The poem here 
included was admired by Prof. Gummere, the lead- 
ing authority of the time on the English ballad. 
"Silent Sam" would appear to have left the deepest 
impression of anything ever printed in C. V. 

The Last Speech of Silent Sam. 

TROY, DANIEL W. A lawyer in Montgomery, Ala. 
Formerly a student at the University of Pennsyl- 

Won by Ear. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

UNTERMEYER, LOUIS. A New York business 
man, poet, and critic, the author of numerous vol- 
umes too widely known to need mention. Con- 
tributor of verse to leading magazines and reviewer 
for The New Republic. 
The American. 

VAN SLYKE, BERENICE K. A graduate of Welles- 
ley, now in France doing relief work. Has con- 
tributed to the Atlantic and Chicago Poetry. 
I Stood at Twilight. 

VEDDER, MIRIAM. A graduate of Wellesley; now 
in New York. 

The Watchman. 

WARING, JOHN M. The pen-name of a poet living 
near Wilmington, Del. 
The Soul's Goodbye. 

Winter Flowers. 

WATTLES, WILLARD. Teaches at the University 
of Kansas, Lawrence, Kan. Contributor to poetry 
magazines and others, author of "Lanterns in 


Courage, Mon Ami I 

Ha! Ha! 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

WELLES, WINIFRED. Resides at Norwich, Conn. 
Has contributed to magazines, especially the North 
American Review, and has just published her first 
volume, "The Hesitant Heart." 

In An Old House. 

After Sorrow. 

who was overseas by our last advice. Contributor 
to the Century and to Miss Rittenhouse's "Little 
Book of Modern Verse," 


WHEELOCK, JOHN HALL. Connected with the 
publishing house of Scribner's, New York. Author 
of four volumes, the last of which is entitled "Dust 
and Light." Represented in practically all the best 
magazines and anthologies. 

Return After Death. 

WIDDEMER, MARGARET (Mrs. Robert Haven 
Schauffler). Formerly of Doylestown, Pa., now at 
Larchmont, N. Y. Author of numerous novels and 
two volumes of verse, one of which divided th<* prize 
for the best book of poetry appearing in 1918. 

From "Songs for a Mask." 
Swanhild Sings to the Knight. 


Biographical Index to Poets Represented 

Now living in New York. Well known for her 
services to poetry as critic and anthologist, espe- 
cially in her volume "New Voices." She is about 
to publish her second book of original poems. 

WILLIAMS, OSCAR C. Now in Brooklyn. Has 
contributed widely to magazines for a poet of eight- 
een, and is planning a volume. 

WILSON, JOHN FRENCH. A graduate of Haver- 
ford College, now practicing law in Cleveland. The 
sonnets here printed were among the most widely 
quoted poems of the year 1919. 
Week-End Sonnets. 

WOOD, CLEMENT. Born in Alabama, now teaching 
in New York. Author of the volumes "Glad of 
Earth" and "The Earth Turns South." Winner of 
several poetry prizes and about to make his debut 
as a novelist. 

The Poem. 

I Would not Die in April. 

WOOD, ELEANOR DUNCAN. Resides in the south. 

WYLIE, ELINOR. Lives in Washington, D. C. 
"Les Lauriers sont Coupes."